


Salvation I: Prayers for the Despairing

by CadetCactus



Series: Of Somewhat Fallen Fortune [1]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games)
Genre: A ridiculous slow burn, F/F, First Meetings, Pre-Inquisition, Strangers to acquaintances????, lots of filler, pirates!
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-11
Updated: 2021-01-29
Packaged: 2021-03-09 21:01:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 61,181
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27502720
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CadetCactus/pseuds/CadetCactus
Summary: In the years leading up to the War Against the Elder One, Captain Evelyn Trevelyan and Merchant Princess Josephine Montilyet allied themselves together to face against the plot of a greater evil.This is the telling of their first journey together.(A re-write of 'Pretty Little Weapon')
Relationships: Female Inquisitor/Josephine Montilyet, Josephine Montilyet/Female Trevelyan, Minor or Background Relationship(s)
Series: Of Somewhat Fallen Fortune [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2009968
Comments: 2
Kudos: 21





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> > _Maker, my enemies are abundant.  
>  Many are those who rise up against me.  
>  But my faith sustains me; I shall not fear the legion,  
>  Should they set themselves against me.  
>    
>  **-Trials 1:1**_  
> 

[Evelyn Nerys Trevelyan](https://www.flickr.com/photos/190990052@N03/50589177326/)

**Summer in Kirkwall, 9:37 Dragon**

Evelyn could count four different footsteps from her position underneath the scaffolding: two mages and two archers.

She stood as still as possible as the wood above her croaked underneath heavy feet and leather boots, her breaths coming in agonizingly slow. Her intuition was heightened. Her senses were hyperactive. The intensity and weight of the situation was amplifying the twitch of her muscles and the pumping of her blood.

Scattered across the dark and dusty cavern were several more foes that she couldn’t quite catch or make out; at least a dozen more men and women, clad in leathers and rags. They were patrolling the grounds while armed to the teeth with swords and knives, bearing the mark of the Felicisima Armada.

A single skull blinded by the red of a bandana, it was a familiar mark, not just to Evelyn, but to the rest of the world. One would come across the mark often while out at sea, facing the infamous Captains of the Raiders and their crew of savage, thieving pirates, and some would say it was the mark of a bad omen, a warning that the day at sea would not end as a fair one.

But to Evelyn, it was more of an annoyance now, a sight that made her want to curl her fist and shake it in the air.

The last of Castillon’s naval company was squatting in the old slaver caverns, and Isabela was adamant on finally ridding Kirkwall of all of them. She would’ve liked to send a message to the Armada, maybe a big, _“fuck you, leave me alone,”_ but once they picked off all the Raiders in Castillon’s company, eventually, the company of another Captain would sail in on the horizon to fill the spot.

Despite the Captains in the Armada being engaged in their own petty and bloody feuds with one another, they remained fiercely loyal to their affiliation. Mess with one Captain, and you mess with them all. Isabela, of course, was the _only_ person in all of Thedas foolish enough to do such a thing.

Evelyn _maybe_ hated her for it.

Just not enough to refuse coming along with her to fight these Raiders, apparently.

Evelyn inclined her head slightly to get a better sense of where her companions where, as if she could hear and pinpoint their each and individual steps apart from the Raiders. Just barely, like the quiet patters of a mouse, she could hear them, the footsteps that were broken away from the steady rhythm of the cavern, a disturbance in the still air that went unnoticed by the idle pirates.

Tucked in the shadows between a rock and a wall, Evelyn caught the glint of shiny steel and gold. Isabela's honeyed eyes glimmered with that familiar edge, a rush of adrenaline, as excitement of getting her daggers bloodied lit up her nerves. Perched on a ledge above her, gathering advantage over the whole of the playing field, Evelyn could scarcely hear the mechanical pull and click of a crossbow, Varric's charmingly vicious smirk regarding her quick glance. Just to the side of him, there were two faint greenish-yellow lights, curled around tiny balled up fists that pulled at the Fade to fuel Merrill's magic. Finally, Evelyn caught electrifying blue eyes as Hawke settled in position right next to her, the weight of her plate armor settling against her restless limbs.

 _“Ready?”_ Hawke mouthed.

Evelyn nodded. _“Ready.”_

Hawke raised three fingers. Evelyn readjusted her grip on her sword handle, her body tensing as a finger went down. She took a deep breath as another went, and not even a second after the third finger went down, did a stone structure imitating a closed fist fly across the air. A terrifying crunch of bones and flesh followed from above, and like a whip had cracked in the air, all in the cavern startled in alarm.

Evelyn rushed from her position, her feet carrying her towards the closest Raider, who barely had the time to unsheathe his own weapon before she swiped her left-handed dagger across his throat. Pivoting on her feet, she brought her sword hand up and blocked the advance of another to her right. Her dagger left her hand to focus her strength on the sword against this second foe. She pushed against his blade, eventually breaking the stalemate and engaging in a back-and-forth exchange of parries and thrusts.

Just behind her, Hawke was plowing through the waves, swinging her greatsword with the ease of a walk in the park. Isabela was appearing and disappearing in puffs of black smoke, her cackles reverberating across the cavern. Overhead, Merrill shot electricity through the air, bolts whizzing past Evelyn and her companions with the breadth of a strand of hair. Varric was pumping arrows into the crowd in quick succession, wild, as if he held no control over his own contraption.

Any sane person would look at their tactical approach and think they were mindless, blundering _idiots_. It seemed messy; it seemed dangerous; it seemed more harmful than helpful, but Evelyn did not concern herself with getting caught in friendly fire. She and her companions fought side by side so often over the years that they’d learned how to maneuver and dance around each other’s strategy. They learned to adapt, and rather quickly, following the pace of a fight.

Carefully calculated by instinct and experience, their way was destructive, even reckless, but it served to be effective overall in getting them to their end goal. And wasn’t that just the core value of teamwork? Being able to cooperate and compensate for one another? Pick up where one was lacking, or uplift when needed? Because they did just that; they just worked so flawlessly together that it was almost _beautiful_ , like a performance, of some sort.

A beautiful, bloody, brutal, performance.

Evelyn had finally gained an upper hand over her opponent. It was a dirty trick, but she was exhausting herself on such a tedious exchange (and besides, there wasn’t anything wrong with playing a little dirty). She dug the tip of her boot in between his legs, and once he keeled over, she brought the blade of her sword down and stuck it in the back of his head.

She didn’t watch him collapse onto the ground.

“Go low, Trev!” Varric shouted. Evelyn ducked just as an arrow had freed itself from his crossbow. She heard the _shwoop_ and gurgle of blood as the point dug into the throat of the Raider behind her, not even a second after his warning. “Ha! That’s another for me! How many have you got, Hawke?”

“More than you can count!”

“Bet you a pot of silver I’ll hit ten before you can even get your next kill!”

“You’re _barely_ on ten?” Isabela scoffed, somehow appearing besides Evelyn. “Get on my level, V, I’m crushing these bad boys!” And away she went again.

Evelyn, after her moment of rest, was thrown back into the fray. As her friends bantered over the sounds of metal on metal, cackles of electricity, shouts and groans and bodies being thrown to the stone and sand underneath their feet, she grit her teeth, trying to keep her focus on the task at her _literal_ hands. It was proving to be quite difficult now, when her opponent was able to successfully swipe at her.

Evelyn stumbled back, cheek stinging. “Everyone quit being so distracting! This isn’t a _game!_ ”

Somewhere through the smoke, she heard Varric laugh. “Hey, if you’re not having fun, that means you’re doing something wrong!”

“Look, if I die here because you told me to _‘have a bit more fun’_ , I’m going to haunt you for the rest of your life!” She shouted back, ducking and uppercutting the Raider’s jaw. She then stuck her blade through his chest cavity, backing the force with all her building frustrations. “How _fun_ do you think that would be, Varric?”

“Oh, stop being so dramatic!” Isabela scolded. “You know we wouldn’t let you die!”

Evelyn kicked away the body and faced another Raider that was a bit...different than what she was used to. He was bigger than she was, with twin daggers about the size of her full arm, and limbs the thickness of her thighs. Almost immediately, she was put on the defense, pulling back and back and back, trying to keep his advances at bay, until she was eventually locked into a corner.

The Raider smirked, pleased with his advantage over her. “Scared, little girl?”

Evelyn shook her head and readied her stance. If she timed this out correctly, she could slip from underneath him and catch him from behind. But if she wasn’t quick enough, if she got too close…

The Raider moved to attack, and she dove right, ready to jump him from where his guard was vulnerable. But, _of course_ , her foot caught in a small pocket of the earth, pebbles and sand coming loose under her boot. With her balance off center, Evelyn stumbled onto the ground. She rolled back on her feet, but not quite fast enough, as the second she was up, she was punted back down. The Raider stomped his boot on her wrist, causing her to cry out in pain, and with a loosened grip on her sword, he was able to kick it away.

He towered over her and cackled, forcing his two daggers down in one swift movement. Evelyn, with what sense she had left, rolled out of the way, crawling towards her sword while cradling her wrist close. The Raider caught her ankle and pulled before she could get far, the rough surface of the cavern floor digging and poking into her leather and exposed face. She kicked back and was able to flip over. Her eyes widened, watching as the Raider brought his dagger high above his head again. He drove the daggers down on her, but then, midway, he stopped.

Evelyn flinched back, sticky and warm liquid erupting from his mouth where the blade of a dagger had entered and exited. She scrambled to her feet as he dropped to the floor like a deadweight, and just for good measure, Evelyn kicked him in the jaw. When she looked up, Isabela was standing behind him, one corner of her lip turned up smugly. “See? We told you we wouldn’t let you die.”

“My death here shouldn’t even be an _option_ ,” Evelyn huffed. “Why do I keep agreeing to your requests? I swear, it's like everywhere you take me, I'm digging my own grave.”

“It's because you _love_ me,” she tittered away, lax, as that had been the last of the Raiders.

Evelyn scowled, but she knew Isabela was right.

When the high of adrenaline weaned off, Evelyn felt it first in the burning of her chest, the overworking of her heart and lungs to ensure her survival. It had been some time since she faced a fight like this. Her body had gotten so used to leisure that this sudden strain of activity was near tortuous. She leaned forward with one hand on her knee, the other swollen wrist held tight to her chest as it began to ache. Her only coherent thought was that she should probably not come out with her friends anymore unless Anders was there too. Downing tonics helped numb the pain, but not the concern of a broken wrist.

"Is everyone alright?" Hawke's voice broke through the silence, echoing gently off the empty cavern walls. She came to stand before Evelyn. She was tall and commanding with the flair of a natural-born leader, but she mocked Evelyn's exhaustion to level with her gaze, a soft concern in her eyes. "Are _you_ alright, Evelyn? How’s your wrist feeling?"

Evelyn brushed her off, even though she was surely beginning to see stars. "I'm alright. Just need a moment to catch my breath. My wrist aches but I can still move it around. I think. I’ll see Anders about it later."

"You're getting a bit rusty." Hawke, reassured that Evelyn wouldn't suddenly fall over, cracked a lopsided grin. She returned to her full height, and mostly to prove a point, Evelyn followed suit. "Maybe you should spend less time at the beach and more time with Aveline.”

“I think I’d rather go on and bury all these idiots than spend a day with Aveline. I’d get the same amount of pain and suffering.”

“You’d get the same silent judgement, too.”

"Oh, Hawke, leave the poor girl alone." Isabela placed an elbow on Hawke's shoulder, the dagger in her hand dripping with the same dark red that pooled just at their feet. With her other arm, she swiped at the splatters across her cheeks and nose, overly satisfied with her job well done. "She's been at sea for two months now. You know there's only so much she can do on a ship."

It was only when they stood side-by-side did Evelyn notice just how perfectly they seemed to fit, like two different pieces of a puzzle that snapped together. Isabela came to slightly above Hawke's shoulder, which was broad and built like the rest of her strong body, and though Hawke spent so much time in the light of the sun, her skin couldn't hold a tan as well as it could hold shades of red and pink. Hawke's hair was cropped short, with stray fringes that were always in her eyes, and spanning from one cheekbone to the other, crossing over the dip of her nose, was white scar tissue from one of her own close calls in a fight.

Isabela was near opposite. Beautiful sun-kissed skin, the color of a handful of coppers, with not even a single scratch despite her years. A gaze that was hard yet charming, easily able to strike fear or intrigue in the hearts of many. Long waves cascading over her shoulders, held back by the blue of a bandana. A true Rivaini pirate, she was the striking image of a dexterous rouge. Nimble, quick, light on her feet, Isabela could easily dance circles around Hawke, and she did, for some time, but Hawke’s strength was enough to sweep Isabela right off her fast feet.

Hawke snaked an arm around Isabela’s waist and burrowed a nose in the mass of thick black hair. She pressed a kiss to Isabela’s temple, burning with all the passion of a hundred Chantry priests. Evelyn couldn’t ignore the giddy smile that grew on the Pirate Queen’s lips even if she tried. "I can suggest a few things that could be done on a ship. For one, that _thing_ we do in your Captain's Quarters with the ropes and the-"

"-Woah, woah, woah! Save the raunchy details for when I actually have a pen and paper on me, would you?" Varric chimed, tearing an arrow from the flesh of one of his fallen marks. He inspected the steel tip, and satisfied with its condition, wiped the blood off and deposited it back into his quiver. "You know I'm in need of some hot, juicy content for my next chapter!"

With a hand placed on her chest, Hawke gaped, a convincing display of indignation at Varric’s forthrightness. "I’m offended that that’s all we are to you, Varric. Just fodder for your stories. I mean, don’t you _care_ about our health and well-being?”

"I _do,_ ” he drawled, “which is why I come to these dark, dingy, arachnid-infected caverns in the first place. Do you think I _like_ the idea of being spider food? Because I _don’t_. I’m too pretty to be ripped apart and eaten so brutishly.”

"Oh, Varric, I don't suppose you like much of anything, though, do you?” Merrill chirped, a dainty finger tapping her chin in thought. She placed a hand on her hips, head inclined just slightly. Despite being the cause for half of the chaos and destruction that had just conspired, piles of smoky ash and crushed limbs, she looked completely harmless. It unnerved Evelyn even now, despite years passed spent by her side, just how innocent she could look. “The quiet, things that are too neat.”

“The smell of the sea, the rain, water in general,” Isabela listed.

Hawke tacked on, “Slopes, uneven ground, the dark.”

“All types of weather, the sun, especially.”

“Okay, my whole point was,” Varric chuckled in amusement, “that as much as _I_ wouldn’t like to be eaten, I don’t like the idea of _you all_ getting eaten any better. Getting some quality ideas for my writing is just a huge plus for making sure you’re still kicking by the end of the day.”

“All this talk about spiders is making me itch,” Evelyn murmured. She rolled out her shoulder, if only to cover up a shiver; spiders were disgusting creatures, and the ones in Kirkwall, for some reason, grew abnormally large. It only made these trips to the caverns less enjoyable. “Can we leave before we actually become a buffet?”

Hawke moved to sling an arm over Evelyn’s shoulder. “You know, I don’t think we’d make a very good buffet. Our prices are quite high. I mean, all-you-can-eat mediocre flesh for the price of their lives? _Definitely_ not worth it.”

“They still come for us though,” Varric pointed out. "That should mean something."

“Do you think the taste of our flesh is so good that they’d risk losing their lives over it?” Merrill quirked.

“Can’t ask me. Certainly can’t ask the spiders either. There’s a bit of a lack of review from them, you see," Hawke shrugged. "But, judging from their desperation, I’d assume so.”

“Speaking of buffets and reviews,” Isabela hummed, “what do you think about that one up in Hightown? The one Gerald just opened up?”

“Honestly,” Hawke rubbed her chin, “I think that’s the greatest thing to come out of Hightown since…well, nothing good ever comes out of Hightown, now that I think about it. Nothing good comes out of Lowtown, either. Or Darktown. Or the Gallows. Hm, I think I’m sensing a pattern here.”

“Oh! I know!” Merrill raised a hand. “Nothing good ever comes out of Kirkwall!”

“Yes, Kitten, that’s _precisely_ it.”

Hawke suddenly left Evelyn's side, pacing around the bodies with a thoughtful express. “Do you ever think it’s because of _us?_ Because look, we’re the only ones actually cleaning up around here, but do you even remember the last time where things went right for Kirkwall?”

Varric smirked. “I don’t think there _ever_ was a last time.”

“Right! That’s what I’m saying! It’s like, _we_ keep trying to diffuse the metaphorical bomb ready to blow the whole city up, but we’re just constantly upping the countdown, not stopping it, and somehow, in the whole process, we keep getting more and more bombs to diffuse!”

As fond as she was of her companions and their mindless chatter, Evelyn was beginning to feel a sense of dread crawling up her skin (or maybe it was the _spiders_ ). She poked the toe of her boot into the soft flesh of a woman at her feet, her hazel eyes staring up at Evelyn with a gaze that was… _unsettling_ , to say the least. It wasn't like staring into the eyes of a person, a human being with fire and desire, a warmth behind the surface of their skin. The dim light from the lanterns reflected off the blacks of her irises rather than be absorbed, and it was as if staring into the eyes of a doll, lifeless and emptied, a dark void of nothingness.

It was a haunting feeling. She’d killed many men and women before, but she’d never had the opportunity to actually look in the face of the ones she’d drained the life from. Most times, she saw them as obstacles, as things just in the way of her and her end goal. She never saw them for what they were, living and breathing humans, with friends and family and a life. This woman, with the hazel eyes and the chestnut hair, what was her name? Where was she from?

Evelyn felt a tightness in her chest, like the tiniest bit of humanity that existed within her was trying to claw its way out, to free itself from the cages of her ribs. She liked to say she was a good person, and she would continue to tell herself that she was, that killing killers and robbing robbers justified all her questionable actions. But a part of her only wondered, was she the same as them? Was she just as bad as they were? These _criminals?_

The Raiders were her enemies. Isabela had torn herself away from the Armada and now manned her own fleet, with Evelyn being one of three Captains that operated under her command. They were the competition; they were, in Evelyn and Isabela’s eyes, the bad guys, and them, the good, as good as could be. She shouldn’t have been feeling such…such _remorse_ for these people. Yet strangely, there she was.

Evelyn was not a slaver. Isabela, _thankfully_ , was not one. The Raiders were, facilitating the largest trade on the Waking Seas. Isabela’s greatest goal was to diminish their trade rings, cripple their finances and pluck them off the high seas one Captain at a time. A good motivation, a positively charged one, but was that good enough to justify all that she’d done for the sake of her Admiral? Evelyn was a criminal still, a murderer, a liar, and a thief, outside saving the lives of innocents, and she wondered, would the consequences of her crimes eventually catch up to her, like the crimes of these Raiders had caught up to them? Would she, one day, be haunted by the lives she’d taken, come to seek their own retribution and punishment?

She was not of the Faith anymore, devout no longer, but Evelyn still couldn’t shake the heaviness in her chest, the fear struck in her mind from being turned away in the eyes of the Maker. She couldn’t help but think, the questions crawling over her boots and under the cuffs of her bloodied shirt and leather vest, pricking her skin like the pointed legs of spiders: how much was the weight of her sins, now? How dark was Evelyn’s own soul? Would she drown in the pool she’d created from the blood of her own enemies? Or would she be given peace for her efforts against the greater evil?

She saved the lives of many at the expense of others.

But could her own life be worth the salvation?

Evelyn tore her gaze away from the hazel eyes. She felt nauseous. She needed to get out of there, and fast. “Can we not have this discussion with a bunch of _dead_ bodies at our feet?”

“You know,” Isabela said, oblivious to her dilemma, “we should actually go to that buffet in Hightown. I’m feeling _famished_.”

They followed the path back to Kirkwall, traversing through the Wounded Coast as the sun hung high over their heads. Sand and pebbles were getting stuck in Evelyn’s boot, and every so often she’d have to stop to turn them out, annoyingly. Her whole mood had soured since leaving the cavern. For the sake of the group, who remained jovial as ever, she hung behind to sulk in her own thoughts.

As she paused again to take off her shoes completely, a hot and humid breath of wind pushed through Evelyn’s hair. She turned her head against it, sweat starting to form at the base of her neck, and caught herself staring at the sea for a moment.

Some small ships were sailing along their sides, picking through the water that was dark and muggy and full of debris. She recognized a few Ferelden trade symbols and Orlesian flags pulling in and out of the Kirkwall gates. Imports and exports, spices and textiles, food and drink; Evelyn wondered what else were on those ships. Exotic animals? Smuggled goods? Criminals, refugees, maybe even…people in chains?

She wondered how many of those ships were secretly waving the flag of the Armada, and she wondered if and when she’d have to face them off again; Isabela’s past consequences; her enemies.

Evelyn sighed. It seemed that no matter what, there would always be _somebody_ in the way. There would always be a life to be taken, an obstacle needing to be removed. She never found pleasure in it, but it had to be done; she was a _pirate_ after all, and what more did they do than lie and steal and kill? Evelyn picked up her boots and jogged barefoot to catch up with her friends.

By the time they reached the buffet, Evelyn’s appetite for both food and discussion were nonexistent. Every once in a while, her eyes would cross the tapestry hung to the wall.

The Chantry’s sunburst stared right back at her. Mocking.

*****

When the sun had begun to set, Evelyn and her company returned to Lowtown. She felt a bit more at ease in the comfort of her own neighborhood, in the one place that she truly called home. The Hanged Man, for all its filth and bad smells and even worse people, served as a sanctuary of some sorts. A safe place, where Evelyn could go and just be, without the breath of the world seemingly on her neck. It was familiar and always remained unchanged. Untouched, like nothing else existed outside those walls and all that mattered was who and what was inside.

As usual, Anders was preaching some thing or another about his Manifesto, with Fenris just boiling over, ready to cut in with a rebuttal. Varric was around for the drama. No doubt, he had a pen and paper on hand, just ready to go. Merrill and Isabela had their own prior engagements that night, leaving Evelyn and Hawke to their own.

Of course, missing was their red-headed companion, whose absence had become more of a normality now. Aveline was a rare sight. Her position as Captain of the Kirkwall Guard kept her away most nights, but now, her presence had become almost non-existent. Evelyn couldn’t blame her, really.

From what Bethany had been saying in her letters from the Gallows, tensions were at an all-time high between Mages and Templars. Meredith’s three years of stewardship following the death of the Viscount had only brought a deeper wedge between Kirkwall and peace, and Aveline felt it her absolute duty to make sure there weren’t any more mass murders in the streets than was acceptable.

Maker forbid, they needed _another_ Battle. The last one was trouble enough.

Evelyn swirled her cup’s fill. She hadn’t taken a sip yet, partially listening to Anders from the other end of the table. “Have you talked to Bethany lately?”

Hawke nodded, already on her second or third cup. “I went to see her just yesterday, actually. I think she’s met somebody special. She seemed too eager to get me to leave, like she had more important things to do than have a chat with her own sister. When I asked, she said she had a meeting with a _friend_. I might have to bribe Cullen to do some snooping around for me, see who this _‘friend’_ actually is.”

“You’d bribe the _Knight-Captain_ of the Templar Order to dig into the potential love life of your sister, who is a _Mage_ at the Circle he _works_ at?”

“Yeah? Why wouldn’t I? I want to know who it is that’s got my sister’s attention.”

“There are so many boundaries you’d be crossing, Hawke.”

“It’s _Bethany_ , though! I can’t remember the last time she ever had a crush. I just want to know if he’s got the potential to break her heart. And if so, I want to know if he has any family in the immediate area. Just to…make sure they’ve participated in the annual census, of course.”

Evelyn shook her head in disbelief. “I can see why Carver doesn’t write often.”

“ _Hey!_ What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Guess who’s back,” Isabela suddenly announced, right on time, sliding into the empty space next to Hawke. “It’s _me!_ I’m back!”

“Welcome back,” Evelyn cut in before Hawke could say anything else. “Where’d you run off to?”

“I was meeting with a contact. He’s hired us for a big job,” Isabela grinned. There was that sparkle in her honeyed eyes, that ambition that sometimes got them into more trouble than anything. Evelyn recognized it for what it was, a warning to brace herself, and an incentive to finally take a sip of her drink.

“Alright. Lay it on me.”

“There’s an old relic out there called Aurora's Freedom. It's a double edged and serrated blade, with a tight firm grip, and supposedly, it's enchanted in a way that stops a Mage from doing the magic stuffs."

Isabela fetched a piece of parchment from her cleavage and unfolded it, sliding the parchment to the middle of the table. It was a sketch of said blade, unlike any build that Evelyn has seen. The blade was split halfway down with two horned tips, and the handle was ridged and skinny and pointy at the pommel. Just a sketch, and yet, Evelyn had never seen a weapon so pretty.

“He’s looking for it?”

“That’s right,” Isabela winked, subtly pouring more drink into Evelyn’s cup. “Would you be up for the task of hunting it down, _Captain?_ ”

“I just got back from one job,” Evelyn huffed. “You haven’t paid me, by the way.”

“You know the fleet’s been a little dry these days, but you’ll get your money, I promise. I’ll pay you both commissions for the last one and for this one, once the job gets done, and I’ll even throw in a little bonus for your troubles. Now, doesn’t that sound _grand?_ ”

“The bonus _does_ sound appealing,” Evelyn hummed, “but where am I going to find this dagger? And please tell me it doesn’t have to do with walking into _another_ cultist ritual.”

“Listen,” Isabela threw up a finger, “that was _one_ time. How was I supposed to know which windmill it was? They all looked the _same!_ I swear, Fereldens and their damn pastures.”

“Hey,” Hawke swatted in offense, “leave my Ferelden windmills alone. They’re _great._ ”

Isabela ignored her. “In about two weeks, the Comte in Val Royeaux is throwing a midsummer gala. Some fundraiser for one reason or another, I could give a sheep’s ass about it, but the dagger is going to be there. From what I’ve been told, it’s in the possession of the Montilyet family, a lower Antivan noble house that’s not doing so hot. They’re sending the eldest and having her auction it off for some extra coin.”

“So, am I…going to be making an offer for it?”

“Andraste’s swaggering tit, _no!_ You’re going to be _stealing_ it,” Isabela said. “But I hear the Antivan Prince is making an appearance too, the actual Prince, not those golden boys who run the city. Something about strengthening trade ties, whatever. Security is going to be extra tight, but you can get around that, right?”

“Security shouldn’t be an issue but… _wait,_ ” Evelyn drawled, “why aren’t _you_ taking this job? Is there something else you’re not telling me? I swear, Izzie…”

“No! Why do you always think there’s a catch? Don’t you trust me?”

Evelyn blinked. “Of course, I trust you. I just don’t trust the questionable jobs you give me. Something is _always_ bound to go wrong.”

“Well, we’ve got our own little mission to go on,” Hawke said in her stead. “Varric caught wind of Fenris’ sister in Floren’s Bay, so in a few days we’re taking a trip across the Waking Sea to go find her.”

Evelyn’s brows raised high then. For a moment, she glanced over at Fenris, now spitting at Anders with his fists curled a bit too tightly on the edge of the table. “Oh, Varania? What’s she doing in Floren’s Bay?”

“Damned if we know,” Isabela suddenly frowned, her voice going low. “Floren’s Bay is a hotspot for the Imperium. There’s a lot of trade that goes on down there, so we might be gone for a while if something goes amiss.” She shook her head, then smiled again, lifting Evelyn’s cup to her lips. “But you’re a big girl, Evelyn, you can handle yourself. This job’ll be quick and easy. You just have to go to a little soiree, do a little bit of mingling, a little bit of dancing. Nothing _too_ difficult.”

Evelyn sipped at the urge of her Admiral, but she didn’t believe her for a second. “Do you even have a sense of what _difficult_ is? You stole a Qunari artifact and got away with it. That’s not something any ordinary person could do.”

“Oh, I do love it when you compliment me and my awe-inspiring handiwork. But come on, _sweet cheeks,_ ” Isabela crooned, suddenly leaning over the table and batting her eyelashes, “say you’ll do it. For your good friend, Izzie. _Please?_ ”

Evelyn’s expression twisted almost immediately, as if she were presented with something as foul as a dead dog. She hated that nickname, and Isabela knew it too. The damn Pirate used it often as a secret weapon against Evelyn to convince her to do whatever it was she wanted. It was supposed to be endearing in that Isabela way, a little flirty and a little dirty, but it made Evelyn squirm. “Alright,” she scowled. “I’ll do it. But that bonus better be good.”

Isabela smirked in victory. “Oh, it _definitely_ will! You should leave in two days if you want to make good on your time. We can go over the rest of the details tomorrow, but for now, let’s finish up this bottle. It’s good rum.”

*****

After some time, Evelyn’s head had grown fuzzy and her tummy warm from the drink. She said her goodbyes and stumbled for the stairs, becoming completely winded once she reached the top of the climb. Several familiar and unfamiliar faces regarded her as she bumbled through the hall. It was dim and dingy, even spinning in her tipsy vision, but it was a maze she could navigate blind, known to her like she knew the back of her hand.

The Hanged Man had several rooms, and for as long as she’d been there and even years before, two of those several rooms were permanently rented out by Varric and Isabela. Varric was most likely one of the wealthiest figures in Kirkwall, but despite that fact, he opted to remain in his comfortable grand suite above the tavern, obviously bigger and better than any other room in the vicinity. Right next to his was Isabela’s quaint room, and though it had been hers since she first came to Kirkwall all those years ago, she had implicitly moved into Hawke’s family estate in Hightown. But, according to Hawke, the timorous pirate queen liked the idea of being able to run if needed, and so the room was continuously spoken for.

Evelyn passed by Varric’s suite and Isabela’s room, continuing down the hall a bit more to her room, tucked in the farthest corner away from the unruliness of the bar. Evelyn retrieved her chain and fumbled through the numerous keys until she found her room one, and once she’d disengaged the lock, she nearly fell right in. She caught herself and shut the door behind her with her foot, and instinctually began to shed away her clothing layers. Evelyn couldn’t be bothered enough to slip on her sleepwear, so she drove straight into her bed, the twirling of her vision making her head hurt and stomach uneasy.

For four years, she slept in the same rented room, her room now, really, as just about every inch of it had been replaced or personalized by her own touch. What once was a room that was simple and lacking, had become a cozy den that she could call her very own. A large bear fur rug made its home at the front of the fireplace, and tucked in the corner was a bookshelf and a comfortable arm chair, a tiny nook for the nights she wanted to bury her nose in a book (which, admittedly, came rarely now). A desk was pushed against the window, filled with little notes and letters, and carved into the surface of the wood was Evelyn’s name and something crude, courtesy of the residential Rivaini.

Her personal belongings lined the shelves, gifts from her name day and souvenirs from countless expeditions. She had a four-poster mahogany wood bed frame and feathered mattress delivered to replace the tiny rotten frame with a top more straw than anything else, and the small dresser that was in the corner had been upgraded to a larger and matching wardrobe. Side tables took their place on either side of the bed, and at the foot of her frame was a long storage ottoman. The only things that stayed constant were the stone walls and wooden floorboards, and if she weren’t renting the space, she’d probably have them altered in some way as well.

Evelyn had originally hoped to get her own shack in the residential district when she first came, and Hawke had opened her doors to her if she needed, but after a night in the room and then another, and Evelyn eventually found herself settling into the Hanged Man. It wasn’t so bad, really. She spent so much time there already, and plus, it was right near the Docks, so she never had to go very far for work. Her only complaint about it was that it was getting a bit cramped with all her things.

She’d have to ask Varric about looking into some real estate for her later.

Once she’d settle enough, Evelyn opened her eyes and began to twist and turn a single piece of jewelry over in her fingers, a bedtime ritual that she couldn't do without. It was a family heirloom that she held in her hands, a symbol of who the Trevelyan’s were. It was a token of their faith, their unity, and their prosperity.

The ring was a simple knot-worked silver band with a small emerald gem pressed into the weaves. There was no beginning or an end to the knotwork, just a single thread that symbolized how life and eternity were interconnected. The emerald gem, looking as if it were being pulled in and swallowed whole by the knots, was the staple stone of her family, representing balance and harmony.

It belonged to her older brother before it belonged to her, a gift from their father when he turned of age, and before their father it had belonged to their grandfather. The ring passed through different hands of Trevelyan children. Usually, the first-born male of the family received it on their day of coming to age. For generations, their family had kept to the tradition, and, needless to say, it wasn't Evelyn’s right to have it in her possession.

But damn that tradition to the Fade and back. She was given it by her brother, and _nobody_ was going to take it away from her.

_“Keep this safe for me. I’ll come back for it. I’ll come back for you.”_

It was the one piece of jewelry she ever wore, thrusted into her palms before Maxwell pushed her out the doors of their burning family mansion. Evelyn always kept it on her person except for when she was sleeping or bathing. It was her most prized possession, the one thing that she couldn’t possibly live without. The ring was, in a way, a symbol of hope, a beacon of light that aimed to help bring her brother back to her.

Evelyn had held up her end of the promise. Even now, despite eight years passed. And she would continue to wait for him to make good on his. Maybe it was ridiculous, thinking a ring could hold so much power. And maybe it was foolish of her, holding on to such hope despite knowing.

Knowing, deep down in the repressed parts of her mind, that Maxwell could not have survived that night.

Knowing, that there was no way.

But Evelyn, stubborn and confident in all the wrong things, would continue to hold on, based solely on the fact that Max never made a promise he couldn’t keep. Her brother was an absolute fool, but he was also a man of his words.

Evelyn pressed her lips to the cool emerald gem before turning over and placing it in the strongbox next to her bed. Maybe it was all the rum, or maybe it was a play on the candlelight, but she was so sure the gem flared.

*****

Her mornings while at home in Kirkwall were always set in stone. She'd come to at first light, mostly against her conscious will, but once her eyes were open it was almost impossible to fall back asleep. Evelyn would simply keep her stagnant position the first few minutes of waking, giving her mind the opportunity to catch up with her body, then with a heavy sigh, she'd roll over and stretch out the stiffness in her muscles and bones.

This morning, her head ached from the aftereffects of the rum, but it was bearable.

After making herself decent, she parted her room and checked in with her neighboring friends: as usual, Isabela was missing from her room, and Varric had been found sleeping in. It was rare for Varric to get some sleep, seeing as the man was a complete busy-body and always had one thing or another to worry about. If it wasn’t his writing, it was his finances, and if it wasn’t his suspicious network of even more suspicious people, it was his friends that he surrounded himself with. It was a miracle he wasn’t greying at the roots, but maybe his lack of facial hair had to do with the amount of stress built up in his small demeanor.

Evelyn shut Varric’s door and continued on. The Hanged Man was quiet and mostly empty this early in the day, an odd sight from the tight and stuffy appeal it upheld when it got late. There was the occasional day drinker at the bar and the stragglers from last night’s bender still passed out on the floor, but it was still relatively peaceful, almost uncomfortably so. Evelyn slugged down the stairs, lazily waving at Corff and snatching a small loaf from the basket Norah held in her hands, before she slipped out of the Hanged Man and into the rather dreadful air of Lowtown in the mornings.

The mornings were a bit more humid than the afternoons, being that the air was cooler before the sun completely rose and the temperature climbed. With the thick humidity came the intensity of the Chokedamp, a foul scent that Evelyn could only describe as a rotten egg smell. She’d turn her nose up but just keep it pushing. Four years in Lowtown, and she’d learn to not gag at the scent anymore and ignore it.

For the most part.

The inhabitants of Lowtown were just beginning to rise as well. Vendors prepped their wares for the day and workers made way for their early morning shifts. Occasionally, Evelyn would pass by a familiar face and nod in passing, but there was no time to stop and chat for either parties. She was running late already for her check-in at the Docks.

The closer Evelyn got to the Docks, the more noise filled the air. The Docks remained busy no matter the time of day. It was lively, fast-paced, and hectic with so many moving bodies and cargo and ships. Around her, Deckhands and Captains and Guards moved, loading and unloading wares, harking out orders, shuffling in their heavy chainmail and boots. The waves of the Waking Sea were gently thrashing at the shore and the pier, seemingly drowning out the sounds of the gulls cawing overhead.

Evelyn sighed, contently. She never felt so at peace in the chaos, breathing in and tasting the salt of the air.

Easily, she caught sight of her Quartermaster, perched on the berth of Evelyn's pride and joy, her precious Bannered Mare. The Mare was a three-mast caravel, an Antivan sailing ship built for its speed and mobility. The first two masts were rigged with the conventional square sails for open-ocean speed, but the third was rigged with a lateen sail for coastal maneuverability.

The bow was broad and gently sloped, rounding out the bottom of the ship to enable riding high above the water. The stern was a bit sharper, a rectangular shape to compromise for the Captain’s quarters. It held a crew of no more than fifty, and in the hold was space for at most, one hundred-and-fifty tons of cargo. It was about half the size of Isabela’s carrack, but it was hers; Evelyn’s first ship, a gift from the Admiral on her name day over a year ago that came with the title of being a Captain in her fleet.

As usual, her Quartermaster stood tall and commanding, eyes overseeing the crew members’ every move much like a hawk watching its pray, looking for an opening to swoop in and attack when they least expected it. “Cassandra," Evelyn greeted once she was close enough, “everything going well?”

“Yes.” Her Quartermaster did not turn away from her watch. “Bull and Sera caused a bit of a mess last night. I am having them scrub every floorboard on the ship with their own toothbrush, as punishment.”

Evelyn raised a brow, looking on in concern now. “With their own? Isn’t that much?”

“You were not there to see the amount of damage they’d inspired.”

Cassandra Pentaghast. She was as ruthless as her blade was sharp. Stern, serious, militant, and absolutely terrifying, she was a person not to be crossed, and a force not to be reckoned with. Her namesake only fueled the flame of her terror; Cassandra hailed from a family most famous for dragon slaying, and rumor had it, Cassandra herself had felled three dragons at once. Of course, those were just rumors, but rumors were enough to instill fear in the hearts of many, Evelyn included.

Cassandra on her own did well to keep the crew in line and to keep them obedient. Evelyn never had reprimanded her crew, though that responsibility did not fall into her hands, anyways. While Evelyn was the Captain, that role and title was given not because she was someone they feared but was instead someone capable of commanding and navigating a ship. Captains were respected individuals, but it was the Quartermasters who were in charge when the Captains weren’t around, and who had the authority to inflict penalties on those crew members who refused to obey commands.

And Cassandra Pentaghast was a woman who loved to keep law and order, no matter the offense.

“Well, I’ll take your word on it,” Evelyn settled. Bull and Sera did have a knack for stirring up trouble. “The Admiral has another job set up for us. We’re scheduled to leave tomorrow morning, as early as possible.”

“Already? We have just gotten back from our last operation not even a week ago.”

“I know, but it’s a time-restraining job. She offered a bonus with it, at least. We can discuss more about the dividends tonight, but for now, we’d better get moving on restoring the stocks. Do you know what we need for the voyage?”

“Food and water. And lots of rags.”

“Rags?”

“It has to do with the concerns of last night,” Cassandra scowled, her expression twisted in disgust. “I’ll tell you about it while we gather our supplies.”

Before the Bannered Mare was seized, they’d been close acquaintances, with Cassandra having known Hawke from her time working for Meeran. Sometimes, she’d provide her assistance wherever Hawke and her company needed it, but for the most part, she kept out of their way. Cassandra was still a mercenary for hire at the time, looking for something more challenging to do, and on a whim, Isabela had asked if she wanted to learn how to sail. The Mare needed a crew to man it, and positions were open with the desperate need to be filled.

Cassandra seemed like the perfect person to fit the role of Evelyn’s Quartermaster. It was strange how quick and willing Cassandra was to agree, but Evelyn was always grateful. Cassandra proved herself to be capable and trustworthy and loyal, all the things that Evelyn needed, and though Cassandra has never admitted it, Evelyn knew that she was thankful to have made their acquaintance as well.

Cassandra was a good Quartermaster. Better yet, she was a great friend. Evelyn couldn’t imagine doing it without Cassandra by her side, a woman she had only gotten to know for a little over a year. The whole truth of Cassandra’s past was still shrouded in mystery, but Evelyn understood more than anyone that some pasts were better left where they were. She didn’t ask questions, and neither did Cassandra. Instead, they focused on the more crucial matters of the present.

Like how many bottles of oil did it take for the Iron Bull to slide across the main deck nude.

According to Cassandra, it was one too many.

*****

Bright and early in the morning, the Admiral herself saw Evelyn and her crew off.

Isabela had developed a sort of habit since Evelyn got her ship. She went through the whole of the Mare before letting them leave for an operation, inspecting every rope, sail, and pulley, going over stocks and rations with Cassandra, and even making sure the crewmates had enough hammocks and barrels of rum to keep them happy. She noticed it was only with her ship that these inspections came, a notice that, for the most part, irked Evelyn’s nerves. It wasted precious time, and it looked laughable.

Evelyn watched from the side, following Isabela’s movements as she paced across the deck for the umpteenth time. “Do you remember which is the starboard side and which is port?” She questioned suddenly.

“Right and left, everybody knows that.”

“And do you know the procedure for sailing through a storm? Does your crew know?”

“Yes. Find the nearest port. If we have to face the storm, though, reef the mainsail, raise the storm jib, ride with the bow to the waves...”

“Base, but good,” Isabela nodded, satisfied. “Have you got your nautical charts? The ones with the lay of the land?”

Evelyn finally groaned, her patience running thin. “ _Yes,_ I have them, Izzie. With the amount of nagging you’re doing, it’s as if I were going on a maiden’s voyage or something. I’ve been to Val Royeaux countless times before, you know.”

“I know, but I’m just trying to make sure you remember. Wouldn’t want you to run aground by accident. This ship is too pretty to lose,” Isabela replied, patting the mahogany wood of the main mast.

“Well, if the ship runs aground, it wouldn’t entirely be my fault. _I_ don’t drive the boat, Skipper does,” she said of the Rivaini man, posted at the helm.

“Look, just because you don’t drive the boat, doesn’t mean you’re not responsible for all that happens. You’re still the Captain, you know. You need to make sure everything’s in shipshape: the sails, the sheets, the lines, the boom. Even the crew needs to be in check. There’s nothing worse than a hole in the ship, other than an incompetent crew.”

“I’m not a halfwit, Isabela. I know what it means to be a Captain.” Evelyn crossed her arms pointedly and raised a brow. “And, since I’m the _Captain,_ I can order you to get off _my_ ship.”

For a moment, Isabela simply stared, unblinking, before breaking out into an infuriating grin. “ _Aww,_ ” she cooed, reaching up to pinch Evelyn’s cheeks. “You’re so adorable when you’re trying to be all tough and demanding.”

“ _Stop that,_ ” Evelyn hissed, pushing her away. “Don’t you have something better to do? Like drink until you pass out or harass Fenris?”

“Oooh, I haven’t harassed Fenris in a while,” Isabela considered, a devious glint in her eyes. “That actually sounds like fun right about now, but where could I find him this early in the morning? Sneaking _out_ of Merrill’s house or sneaking _in_ his own?”

“Considering how many drinks Anders got into before spewing his nonsense,” Evelyn replied, “probably Merrill’s. She’s the only one capable of dealing with Fenris and his flare ups.”

“Hm. I’ll drop by and see. If anything, I could just take the Kitten to go look at hats. Oh! Speaking of hats, you still need one.”

“I don’t _need_ one.”

“Sure, you do! All Captains have hats! Really big ones, at that! It’s what differentiates them from the rest of the crew.”

“Fine. Get me a nice one. _No_ feathers.”

“ _Yes,_ feathers,” Isabela winked. “Anyways, I should probably let you head underway if you want to make it to Val Royeaux on time,” she said, finally turning to walk away. She waved two fingers in the air as a departure, never one for the grand goodbye gestures. “Fair winds, Captain! I’ll see you in a few weeks!”

Evelyn waited until Isabela was back on the pier before sighing heavily. She was glad to be rid of Isabela and her Isabela-ness. It was no secret that Isabela doted on her like some sort of… _mother_ wasn’t exactly the word. No, Isabela was rather _lacking_ in the maternal instincts that a mother had. Perhaps like a mentor, of some sorts, or maybe even older kin.

Whatever it was, Evelyn was covertly appreciative of her care, though in the face of others, she rejected Isabela’s concern. But that more-so had to do with her own pride than anything else. Evelyn had been manning the ship for over a year, now, and it should’ve said something that she hadn’t lost it up to that point. Isabela was looking at it from a good place, but Evelyn wished she’d have more trust and faith in her.

No matter, she had more important things to think about now. Evelyn turned to the main deck, pleased to see that the crew hadn’t been paying attention to what had just transpired. They were milling about, laughing and hooting and hollering, shoving each other playfully with the unruliness of comfortable companions. They looked peaceful, and happy, no doubt full and comfortable after their week back on shore.

Evelyn would hate to break their moment of peace, but they, just like she, had a job to be done.

“What are you all standing around for?” She shouted. “Bowse the anchor! Loose the mainsail! Let’s move, let’s _move!_ ”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CadetCactus back, with two remaining braincells after deciding to scrap and rewrite Pretty Little Weapon. 
> 
> I'm kind of excited for this ngl. 
> 
> Evelyn's character is a little more complex here, and we'll be seeing lots of development in her throughout the parts leading up to the events of Inquisition. 
> 
> Josie will be going through her own crises as well, with some personal headcannons and plots thrown in to sort of make sense of her character in Inquisition.
> 
> That being said, a lottt of things are going to be changed and Josie and Evie will NOT be getting along or getting together right off the bat (hence ridiculous slow burn). It's gonna be a loooong journey with little bits of breadcrumbs on the way.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> > _In the long hours of the night  
>  When hope has abandoned me,  
>  I will see the stars and know,  
>  Your Light remains.  
>    
>  **-Trials 1:2**_  
> 

[Josephine Cherette Montilyet](https://www.flickr.com/photos/190990052@N03/50588432248/in/photostream/)

**Summer in Antiva, 9:37 Dragon**

What was it that made the world go round?

Josephine would’ve picked a careful response. A structured one. An answer that was responsible and sensible. One that was exact. What could possibly be the _one_ production of humanity that turned gears and set life in motion? That was bursting, birthing, like the pressure of the elements when a star formed in the atmosphere? This one little thing that if it had ceased to exist, there would be nothing left of the world but a blank canvas, as dark as the night sky?

Her answer would’ve been a simple four-letter word, a single syllable, a feeling that she could only compare to being as light; all encompassing, warm and radiant; nurturing, like what the sun was to the plants. Gentle and soothing, and as natural as a thing as breathing; the source of strength, vitality, passion; bigger than the greatest armies and fiercer than the will of magic.

Small, yet mighty.

Simple, yet complex.

This brilliant little thing.

L-O-V-E.

Love.

Love love love.

Yes, Josephine would decide love as the answer, her heart leading her mind.

But love was, bitterly, not the correct answer to this question. At least, it was not one that would make her mother proud, because _“money,”_ her mother would always tell her, _“is the force that keeps the world running round. It is the most essential thing in life. Without it, there is no functionality; there is nothing without money.”_

And Josephine with the stars in her eyes, head in the clouds, heart on her sleeves, would tell her mother, dismiss her with a careless response, a reminder that _“there was no need to be so dire.”_ It was a blatant denial of a silly thing; laughed over and paid no mind to, because Josephine was young and what did she know about the ins and outs of real life?

For the first sixteen years of her life, things were simple for Josephine. She concerned herself only in the temporary things; the things that were fleeting and fleeing, fast as the birds nested outside her window one morning and gone the next, because that was what one did when they were young.

She didn’t know a thing about finances and taxes and bills, about survival and struggle and debt. Those were words that had little effect on her, things that were to be worried about in a different lifetime, in a different place far away from her world of dolls and books and dresses and heels.

She did as she should, following the routine established for her, not understanding much of it but only that it was required of her, and she allowed it because there was comfort in the routine. A sort of guidance. An ushering in the right direction. Josephine was simply living with what was given to her. She was loved and pampered and cared for, tutored in history and mathematics and dancing and ballet, and very little else existed outside her bubble of tutors and dinner parties.

But then, following her sixteenth birthday, she was sent away to the University of Orlais, and she thought this to be the end of her life as she knew it (though, she would later learn it was simply the beginning to the end).

The University of Orlais was such a prestigious college, so far away from everything she knew and loved. Josephine thought it to be a punishment at first. She thought it to be some sort of repercussion for doing something wrong in the eyes of her mother and father, though what wrong thing she’d been punished for, she didn’t know. It was because she didn’t know that Josephine had the stirrings of a bitter feeling in her heart, a sense of anger and rage born from betrayal.

This feeling festered in her chest, spread out from her collarbones and her shoulders, and crawled up the back of her neck to wreak havoc in her mind. Though, ultimately, it led to the development of something else. Something bigger. Something better.

Resentment had sprouted into something else entirely the longer she stayed in Orlais. Her emotions grew wild in the capital of Val Royeaux, untamed, unmanaged, like the weeds that sprouted from the cracks in the pavement desperately trying to reach the sun. Josephine, surrounding herself with characters of intriguing qualities, had learned to develop a youthful sense of exuberance.

And like the weeds, she too had broken through the constraints of her entrapments. She too learned how to fall in love with the world and all that came with it. She felt the light on her cheeks; all encompassing, radiant, nurturing. It filled her with hope and appreciation and, above all else, _happiness._

But once she’d had her fun and her friends had all gone, Josephine turned her focus on working up the ranks of the Orlesian court at the urge of her mother. She managed to procure a position at the Antivan Embassy, working first under the supervision of the Public Diplomacy Officer, and as the years went by and as her network expanded, Josephine rose to serve as Chief Ambassador to Orlais, pledging allegiance to the Antivan Crown.

Money was no issue, then, not personally. She knew it was a powerful force, her mother’s voice a constant nag in the back of her mind, but her foolish heart refused to accept it for what it was. She had money, but it wasn’t money that made her feel such a way, that made her feel so _good._ It was something else entirely; this feeling of _freedom._

It could’ve been possible that her mother was wrong, that all this time, it wasn’t money at the roots of the tree of life, but when had her mother ever been wrong?

Josephine would learn the lesson later on in her life: the lesson of just how much money mattered to the world. To her family. To her legacy. The Montilyet’s were, putting it lightly, in need of some improvement in their financial standings. The debt that came with the loss of their footing in Orlais had only multiplied once her father had fallen ill in the twenty-third winter of her life. Treatment for his disease had not been cheap, and their vaults were quickly depleting, faster than they could be filled again.

She learned then, the true importance of gold. Of wealth. Of power. Of how much it could control, how much it could manipulate, how much it could destroy or build. With her return to Antiva City came the bitter revelation, the truth, that it was never about her best and individual interests in the end. It was always about what was best for the family, for the Montilyet name, the rise up to their former glory.

Josephine was proud of her role as Ambassador. Her parents, even prouder. They knew it was a job that made her happy, a job that, at the time, helped make ends meet. But what Josephine hadn’t realized then, was that they had settled for what was best at the time, and times were very different then than they were now.

She knew it then, the truth, when her mother and father sat her down in the back garden of her family home. A simple visit home at the urgency of her mother (she’d thought it was her father’s failing health), the appearance of a strange man in her home, the words, _“this is Lord Adorno Ciel Otranto. We’ve arranged for your engagement,”_ spoken like a betrayal.

She knew it now, whenever she looked at him. Handsome, confident, picturesque, with ice that sparkled in his blue eyes. His meaningless gifts, jewels and silks and shiny steel, sent to her doorstep wrapped in pretty ribbons, sweet words that were of no importance to her, a chance to make things right, to make things better.

She learned to know; _money_ was the ulterior motive in life. Not love. Not happiness.

"Pull!"

The latch disengaged on the model ballista, sending the leather satchel through the air. It soared high above their heads, and Josephine watched her betrothed nock back an arrow and take aim. There was something fascinating about watching him perform: the hard concentration in his eyes, the tension in his shoulders, the sweat dripping down his forehead and off the jut of his brow. It was as if time slowed from the moment the satchel left its seat, and when he'd release the tension in the bow, the arrow cut through the wind like a diving bird and almost always met its mark.

The satchel fell from the air and landed with a thump. Adorno relaxed. He turned to Josephine and beamed with pride, his eyes screaming, _'did you see that?'_ Politely, Josephine smiled back and clapped the pads of her fingers into her palm. "Bravo. That was three in a row."

"If you are so impressed by three, I one time made _seven_ shots in succession.” A boast, and one that Josephine was sure she’d heard before. “But I believe that is enough for the day. Giovanni prepared bruschetta for you, your _favorite,_ ” he said like a reminder. “Let us retreat back to the villa for a late lunch.”

The Otranto Estate was a bit outside of the City proper, where sparse lands and vineyards stretched as far as the eye could see. At this time of the year, the natural beauty of her homeland was touched with the dainty and colorful flowers in full bloom after the spring season. There were soft hills and great trees, not a-many wild rams and nugs that were often sited further inland, but an abundance of birds and butterflies fluttering in the fields.

As they walked along the stone path and the cool air grazed her cheeks, there was a sense of nostalgia that overwhelmed her. Her family used to traverse outside of the capital in the early summer season. A distant relative or some other would invite them out to their country villas, where extravagant garden parties would be hosted to welcome the hotter weather. It was such a simpler time, then, when the only thing Josephine had to worry about was the color of her dress and what boy wanted to kiss her.

Now, it was as if her worries were never-ending. Being the oldest, it was fitting that she took over the business and assumed the head position of the family house. It was expected of her. The Ambassadorial role she played in the Orlesian court wasn’t meant to be permanent; eventually, she would have to return home and take her true place.

But with her father’s failing health and the diminishing profits and the marriage arrangement, Josephine had to leave a position she wasn’t willing to leave just yet, and deal with new responsibilities that she wasn’t equipped to deal with.

It was as if thrown into the water and not knowing how to float before swimming, flapping and flailing and gasping and drowning, clueless, panicked, afraid. And even though she tried her hardest, to give as much as she could, to kick her legs and keep her head afloat, sometimes, she felt her hardest wasn't enough.

Adorno’s voice cut through the thoughts in her mind. She tore her gaze away from the sights and settled on his face as he spoke, the thoughts in her head retreating to the dark place from once they came. “My father and I have arranged for a hunt next month,” he began. “We have a home in Seleny, just on the waterfront, and the grounds in which the game is hunted is only a short horse ride away. I’d like to take you along for the experience. Maybe, I could even teach you how to shoot a bow.”

Josephine's eyes darted to the bow clutched in his hand. It looked light and well-kept, with a slight curve in a sort of backwards S-shape, a black leather grip, and a smooth walnut limb. Etched in the wood of the lower limb was the House Otranto coat of arms, a serpent curling around the trunk of a tree.

Adorno always kept it close to his person. She doesn’t remember a time where he didn’t have it in his hands. But then again, their time spent together was always in the grounds just beyond the villa, where he could show off his skill with the bow.

 _"It was my grandfather’s,"_ Adorno told her during a very similar afternoon, early in their courtship _. "He was the Grand Veneur de Orlais, responsible for the Royal Hunt. In the times of Judicael Valmont and his son Florian Valmont, before Empress Celene ascended the throne and banned it, the Royal Hunt was a pleasurable pastime for those in the Court. It provided game for the Royal table and cleared the forests of creatures that would bring harm to the loyal subjects. But, it also served a more private purpose: as a school of charge. The hunt brought thrill, taught courage, and, in some ways, represented the art of which men went to war.”_

Of course, Josephine was not so ill-informed. After all, she studied at the University of Orlais for several years and worked alongside the Orlesian court. The long and tumultuous history of the Orlesian Empire was ingrained in her mind, as well as the etiquette of its Court and the culture of political intrigue, or, _the Grand Game_ , as it was officially known as.

The Royal Hunt was a favored and expensive pastime, with hundreds of hounds, horses, and staff bred, cared for, and hired to serve for that one specific purpose: entertainment in the face of the public, but, privately, the assertion of dominance. There was no shortage of ‘accidents’ that occurred during a Hunt; more times than not, the Emperors of the Valmont family would invite those in disagreements with them on a hunt to ‘talk over their differences’. Needless to say, there would be no disagreements left to have.

Before Empress Celene took to the throne, her mother died from a ‘hunting accident’ arranged by Grand Duke Gaspard’s wife. From her ascension, the act of the Royal Hunt had since been barred, but hunting was still a favored pastime for the men in House Otranto. It was why, on record, that the House relocated to Antiva City. Their passion for the hunt could live on in a place where hunting was more of a means to controlling the population of the wildlife, all while providing ample food supply for the City.

Now, it was important, yes, but hunting was a sport that Josephine found no appeal in. She understood its primitive purpose, a means of survival, but hunting game for _fun?_ It was a brutish display, an act of violence with no room for apathy. She could never understand the idea of killing animals and parading them as trophies. If one wanted to feel like a man, to fuel their ego and pride, perhaps there were battles in meaningless wars for them to fight instead.

"I must apologize,” she said, trying not to sound so full of disquiet, “I am not one for the hunt, and I fear I would simply hinder your performance if I were to come along.”

"No matter that.” He stopped, and Josephine stopped too. Adorno reached for her hand and held it in his two, like a silent plea. “We are to be wed by the end of the winter season, and I believe this vacation would prove beneficial to the both of us. I want to spend as much time in your company as possible, so I may get to know you, and you may get to know me. _Truly_.”

 _I already know who you are,_ she thought, but never would say. _You are a means to an end. An alternative, a solution to my problems._

Perhaps it was cruel of her to be thinking of Adorno in such a way. Perhaps she should have been working towards accepting him for who he was rather than what purpose he served. But they weren’t marrying out of _love_. They were marrying for _monetary incentives_ , and those did not create lasting commitments. They merely, and temporarily, changed what people did. It was why so many in the seat of power were so easily swayed, and Josephine knew, as quick as the drop of a hat, she could be replaced, tossed aside and discarded like she was nothing.

It was why she had to force herself to become attached, why she had to prove she was not just a provisional fill-in and instead a benefactor to his own interests, but it was difficult when she despised the very man and his interests. Adorno was a wealthy person from a wealthy family, but he was not Antivan and could not hold much influence in the Court. Josephine was well-known and trusted among the Court; she was a way in, and a reluctant one she was.

"I would have to discuss the matter with my father, of course, and see if I would be able to spend some time away from work. We’ve been rather busy these days. The fiscal period financial reports are due soon and this year is our biggest yet, with the reinstitution of our trade licenses in Orlais.”

“Oh, that’s right. How could I forget?” Adorno chuckled. “Perhaps I could speak to him for you. I am rather convincing, after all.”

Josephine forced a smile. “Indeed, you are.”

They continued their trek back to the Otranto villa. It was a quiet and enjoyable fifteen-minute walk through the lemon orchards and olive groves that spanned over acres of their land. The air was strong with the scent of dry wood and sharp citrus, the same scents that seemed to exist on every piece of clothing in Adorno’s wardrobe.

Eventually, they came upon the villa. White stone and tiled roofs, with tall towers that hid away in the cypress, it was a recently built home designed in the center of six acres of land. There were several servants sweeping dust from the courtyard and guards posted at every few meters. Hands cleaned and brushed the thoroughbred horses in the stables and kitchen scullery maids brisked by with baskets of fresh apples and bushels of wheat.

At the main entrance of the villa stood its steward, a tall, bald, and scrawny man that Josephine remembered simply as Giovanni. At their arrival, he bent at his hip with his hands tucked behind him and greeted them with practiced mannerism. Some servants came to whisk away Adorno’s bow and quiver back to his quarters, where he kept them safe and locked up, and then Giovanni led them through the villa, with its long and barren hallways and dozens of opened windows.

They took their lunch in one of the loggias running along the length of the main building. The columns and arches were smooth, opening to view the lake that sat right behind their home. In the distance, Josephine could catch Adorno’s younger brothers chasing one another, waving little toy swords in their hands.

As promised, bruschetta was served along with a bottle of white wine and fresh fruits; classic tomato, smoked salmon, spinach and basil and cheese, cuts of prosciutto; Josephine found herself suddenly famished, and eager to indulge in the colorful spread. She might have thought Adorno’s company to be trying, but at least he provided her with quality meals.

“I believe my mother has yet to send word to yours,” Adorno spoke of the wedding plans once they’d settled, “but she has negotiated for a Harvestmare’s opening at a venue in Treviso. She has decided our wedding date to be sometime before the week of Satinalia. That way, we could spend the first part of our honeymoon in joyous celebration with our families and friends. What do you think?”

Josephine’s brows raised high, the glass of wine in her hands stopping midair. “Was the venue in Rialto not our ruling choice?”

“It was, but the one in Rialto does not have a chocolate fountain, we found. Many of my cousins are in their younger ages. I want them to enjoy the wedding as much as the older ones in attendance will.”

“The Treviso venue is a bit further away from the guests that are to come from Orlais. It wouldn’t be wise for us to aggravate them days before the ceremony. Also, I am set to believe that the Rialto venue is a…better fit within our budget.”

Adorno scoffed, amusement twinkling in his eyes. “My Lady, I thought I told you: do not worry yourself over the finances of the wedding. The Otranto’s are shouldering much of the burden, after all. You and your family are free to simply sit back and relax. We have it handled, really.”

“The wedding is for the _both_ of us, my Lord,” Josephine replied, controlled. “I believe I should have as much of a say and a share in the plans as you do.”

“Yes, I understand, the wedding is for the union of our two houses. We should be cooperating as one, sharing the decisions and the capital investments on equal grounds, but you simply cannot afford to, can you?”

Josephine winced. Though she had learned to dodge and repel comments within the Orlesian court, keeping her chin held high and pride intact, the matters surrounding her family were always sensitive. Adorno’s response was meant to be innocent, perhaps even curious, but it still felt like a low blow.

Much to Josephine’s benefit, however, Giovanni had appeared in the loggia with them, steps heavy with urgency and purpose. “ _Signore_ ,” he interrupted, filling the silence of Josephine’s contemplation of a response, “a raven has arrived from Cumberland.”

Adorno dropped his palm onto the surface of the table, frowning. “Could it not have waited until _after_ we finished our lunch?”

“I apologize for the intrusion, but Guidobaldo Montefello sent the raven, _Signore_. It is urgent news.”

Adorno sighed and held his hand out in the air. “I see. Well, give it here, then.”

As he read the letter, his expression hardened. It was stern, his body language stiff with tension, and it wasn’t so often that the man was so grave. As subtly as she could, Josephine tried to use the light of the sun to see through the parchment, to catch little bits and pieces of information, but he rolled it up promptly and tucked it into his coat before she could.

She snapped to attention when he looked at her. “I apologize to cut our day short, Lady Josephine, but the matter of this letter requires my immediate attention. If you’d like, we could meet again tomorrow to make up for the lost time.”

“It is no issue,” Josephine replied, dangerously curious as to what it was calling him away. “I understand you are a very busy man, so please, send a page for me only when you find yourself free of any obligation. I wish to not take away too much of your time in your schedule.”

“You should be given all of my time, my Lady,” Adorno said, reaching across the table for one of her hands. “How about I make this promise now: when we are wed, I will devote all my afternoons to you. Business will not stand in the way nor be able to call me away, no matter how dire the circumstances. Does that sound promising?”

“Promises are just words, spoken to fill empty space. It is _action_ that holds considerable weight to me. So, I suppose we shall see how good you make on your intentions once we are wed.” Josephine smiled as kindly as she could, her hand limp in his grip. “I hope you do not disappoint.” When Adorno didn’t respond, Josephine drew her hand back and stood, smoothing out the wrinkles in her skirt. “Well, I should see myself out. Until next time, my Lord.”

Josephine curtsied and looked at Giovanni expectantly. He excused the both of them, and wordlessly, began to escort Josephine back to the front entrance. As she waited for the horses to be hitched to the carriage, her mind wandered back to the contents of the letter, her curiosity ruling over Adorno’s previous stinging comment.

It was strange. Guidobaldo Montefello was one of the twelve dozen Princes of Antiva. Not an actual Prince, of course, but one of the few who held true power in the City. What business did he have in Cumberland? And what relationship did he hold with her betrothed, if he felt so comfortable enough to send a raven to him in his time of need?

Josephine pondered on the thought in the ride back to the City. Adorno aimed to expand his business, but Orlesians and Nevarrans were… _estranged_ from one another. So, why would he concern himself with the matters in Cumberland, regardless of his relationship to Montefello? He could easily establish relations with the Free Marches or even Rivain if he was so desperate for opportunity.

But, maybe there was more to it than just opportunity. Maybe there was something bigger in the works.

What project could they possibly be collaborating on?

*****

The Villa Montilyet was one of the oldest homes in the City, the very same one her ancestors from Ages ago lived in. It was a three story, traditionally Antivan-looking home, with many balconies and windows and tall stone walls, surrounded by gardens in the sides and back of the house and a courtyard with a marble fountain at the front. The grounds were lush with vegetation. Moss and ivy grew from the seams of the ancient stone and wherever the sun shone, terracotta plants made their home.

Josephine climbed the steps to the front door and pushed into the foyer, being faced immediately with the imperial staircase that connected to the second floor. The pretty chandelier hung overhead, illuminating both floors in this part of the Villa, and just over the railings, she could see the golden-framed self-portraits of her family and other exorbitant artistry pinned to the pearl white hallway walls.

Strangely enough, every time she came through those front doors, it took her a moment to realize that this was her home; the same home that, years ago, was simple and barren and nearly empty. The fineries that once existed had been auctioned away to keep the title of the villa under Montilyet ownership, and this came after their licenses in Orlais had been revoked a hundred years ago over some small petty feud. It was bittersweet seeing the villa so rich again.

Josephine was glad that her family was on the rise. She prided herself on it partly having to do with her own work and effort. However, Josephine was peeved that it was also Adorno who had a hand in every new piece of furniture put in place and every new rug being rolled out and every new piece of silk being hung from the curtain rods.

Josephine was thankful for all he’d done for her and her family in less than a year, but it was a dangerous situation they found themselves in. Adorno dangled them by a thread. One little thing, one little mistake, and they would all come crashing down yet again. It was this thought that created doubt in her mind; doubt that she could shoulder all this responsibility and see it all through to the end.

Maybe she shouldn’t have been so forward with Adorno before she left. Hopefully, with whatever issue arose in the letter from Cumberland, he would forget about it. Oh, if her mother knew, Josephine wouldn’t hear the end of it…

“Josephine,” said a familiar voice, drawing her back to life.

Josephine turned her head to the side, spotting a familiar face emerging from one of the front rooms. She smiled in greeting, feeling more at ease than she was before. “ _Buon pomeriggio_ , Ida. How are you?”

“I am well, _grazie_.” Ida smiled back. She was a young woman, not that much younger than Josephine herself, and such a beautiful woman she was, with her rounded cheeks and big brown eyes. She was simply dressed; not in the high-quality silk and lace Josephine wore, but in clothes that were clean and well-kept, tailored and pressed to her fit.

Josephine remembered the first night they met. She was about six years old when her father came home with an unfit-looking woman, a small child wrapped in her trembling arms. The woman was picked from the roads, where she’d been begging for a coin to get her out of the winter snow.

 _“Her last employer casted her out. She is desperate for a job, and you,”_ he said to her mother, _“mustn’t be on your feet so much with the baby on the way. Let her pick up after your duties.”_

Ida was three years old at the time, a perfectly aged playmate for Laurien, and someone that Josephine could share and play her dolls with. Antoine had been born later that year, and three years after that, the twins, and throughout the years, Ida had grown to become Josephine’s best friend, and a loved and trusted member of the household.

Ida was, on paper, Josephine’s handmaiden, but she hated to see it as such. There weren’t many employed under House Montilyet to begin with; it was just Ida, Ida’s mother, a few other workers, and a trusty old steward, but the favoritism Ida was showered with showed quite obviously.

She had become another, learning and changing alongside them, there for every obstacle and triumph; a fifth sibling, a sixth child, a woman loved and cared for a bit more than the others in employment. Ida had become more of a family member than an employee over the near two decades she’d been living at the villa, and though she could never be more than just her status as a serving girl, she would still be loved and accepted at House Montilyet as one of their own.

“Did you need something of me, Ida?”

“Oh, yes. Your mother, _Signora_ Patrizia, requested your immediate presence in the veranda. I think she has some news for you. Good news, judging from her conversation with my mother this morning. Not sure what it is, though.”

“I’ll be sure to keep you updated.”

Ida winked, before going off to perform one of her other duties. “Of course. As you always do,” she said.

The veranda was located closer to the back gardens of the villa. Josephine cut through the dining hall and turned a few corners, finding that the double doors to the sunroom were left slightly ajar. Josephine cautiously pushed in. Immediately, she was overwhelmed with the combined scent of moisture, soil, and decaying plants and wood.

It wasn’t a foul scent; Josephine rather enjoyed it. She took a deep breath there, taking it all in; the scent of life, the breath of flora.

The sunroom was one of Josephine’s favorite places. The air here was crisp. Fresh. A full glass encasement with a dome-shaped top, it was full of vibrant colors and deep shades of green. Exotic plants from Rivain grew to the top, their sharp fronds pressing against the glass and leaning towards the light of the sun. The glossy and bold leaves of shrubs grazed her shoulders and ankles as she passed, a shade of white or orange or pink jumping out at her every so often.

Birds often flew in and out from the door that led to the veranda. Their songs were sweet and high, a natural melody that lightened the hearts of any who heard it. Josephine smiled as she tipped her head back. The heat of the sun warmed her cheeks. For a moment, she felt her mind melt away, leaving in its place, a feeling of tranquility.

When Josephine needed to get away, she found refuge in the sunroom. Her siblings didn’t care for the plants as much as Josephine did, and so, their presence was near absent there (a blessing in itself). Her mother did not concern herself with dirt or decay (such _filth_ ), and her father had more than just a green thumb (blue, red, orange, and yellow, for instance).

It was the only place where nobody would bother her, and these days, Josephine found herself in the sunroom more often than not. The preparations for the wedding had proven to be detrimental to her sanity. It was coming up in a few months, and they barely had the venue booked. They still needed to finalize the guest list and send out invitations, have a dress tailored, settle on a dinner menu…

It was all so much. Talks that went on for hours, heavy with the discussion of different color combinations and flower arrangements and table settings and whatever else. But there, in the sunroom, there was not much else that existed. No betrothal, no wedding, just Josephine and the birds and the light of the sun.

After a minute or so, Josephine sighed. As much as she’d like to stick around for a moment longer, she couldn’t keep her mother waiting. Regretfully, she continued out to the veranda that extended from the sunroom, where her mother was always sat in a chaise lounge with a drink in one hand and a book in the other.

With hard concentration on her expression, doing something as simple as reading, she looked beautiful; surely, somewhere in the villa, there was a painted canvas of this very image. Josephine cleared her throat to announce her presence. “ _Ciao, mamma_.”

Patrizia looked up and over at Josephine. She shut the book in her lap and smiled. “ _Mia cara_ ,” she greeted, “how was your afternoon with Adorno?”

" _Bene_. We discussed a bit about the wedding, and…the idea of allowing me to accompany him on a hunt next month. His father and him take a trip at the end of every summer to Seleny, where they have a home.”

"A _hunt?_ " Patrizia stood abruptly. Her mother was much smaller than Josephine, and yet, it felt as if she were looking down on her with her disapproving frown. It was a reminder of all the times she’d been lectured in her youth, and despite her adult age, Josephine stiffened. "You know the wilderness is no place for a _woman_ , especially one of _your_ status, _la mia principessa_." While she spoke, she neared Josephine, her two hands moving to readjust Josephine’s necklace or push a strand of hair back.

Josephine tried not to squirm under her mother's touch, a touch that should’ve been endearing, but to Josephine, served as a reprimand instead. "I did not agree to Lord Otranto’s request, but he is adamant on taking me along. I suspect he will come to see _papa_ about letting me go."

“ _Ben fatto._ I will have a talk with your _papa_. We cannot have you out in harm’s way, yes? The wedding is in several months and you must be at your peak!”

“Yes, of course.”

As much as she loved her mother, sometimes, Josephine hated how her mother looked at her, like she was a plaything, a doll to be decorated and dressed up. For as long as she could remember, she seemed to follow Josephine wherever she went, whispering in her ears, bending her limbs; her mother hovered over her as if she were some sort of puppeteer, moving the strings and having Josephine rise and fall by her hand.

There were certain things Josephine wasn’t allowed to do, certain things she couldn’t even eat. There were dress colors and patterns and styles that couldn’t mix, shoes that always had to be shined. Hair and make-up and perfumes, specially imported oils and serums and powders; Josephine was showered in it all, and though she relished in her spoiled youth, now, looking back, it was quite troubling. Josephine didn’t so much as move unless her mother, meddling in every single one of her affairs, told her to.

Her mother wasn’t as strict as she was in the past, but sometimes, Josephine would catch herself, reverting back to the good and obedient daughter she once was. A tic born out of habit, an instinct to be _perfect_. When she was younger, Josephine never understood why, but she’d learned to understand many things when she returned home.

Patrizia was an almost exact replica of Josephine; it was like looking in the mirror and seeing an older version of herself. Her nose was smaller than Josephine's, and smoother; it was daintier compared to the sharp and bold nose she'd inherited from her father. Her cheekbones were higher, her chin sharper, but the shape of her eyes, the curve of her brows, the bow of her lips, even the length and thickness of her hair: Josephine looked at them and saw herself.

Patrizia now, however, was in the beginnings of her middle ages. The wrinkles she’d work so hard to fight had finally shown and growing at the roots of her dark hair was the gray discoloration of age. It was a bit of jealousy, maybe, a bit of envy and pride all together, when her mother looked at her daughters.

Even though sometimes her mother was cruel, Josephine learned to understand her, learned to reason with her, learned to see that maybe, her mother was just doing all she could for _their_ sake. A part of her just couldn’t help to be… _angry_ wasn’t the right word. She wasn’t angry anymore, wasn’t resentful. She knew why, now. She knew how important this marriage was for her mother, for her father. Josephine felt instead… _pitiful?_

It was a desperate time now, for all of them, and Josephine understood. She knew.

Josephine nodded, twiddling her thumbs at the front of her hips. "Did you mean to tell me something else? Ida said that you required my immediate attention when I returned.”

"Ah, I did. There is a gala to be hosted in Val Royeaux in the coming weeks,” her mother said. “Prince Azrin has requested boons from the noble families to accompany him and participate in the auction. Your father and I agreed that you will be in attendance, representing the Montilyet name.”

Josephine’s heart skipped a beat. She took a moment to process the words, fighting the grin that threatened to surface. She was careful to not show too much excitement; she didn’t want her mother to reconsider. "Of course, _mamma_. I am honored. When am I set to depart?"

"In a few days’ time. Many boons from the other noble houses will be accompanying you on one of His Majesty’s private cruise ships. Once in Val Royeaux, you will be escorted to Comte Audric Boisvert’s mansion, where you will be staying. We will be sending you with an item to exchange, something other than what we initially decided upon since _that_ has suddenly been made scarce.”

“What was the item initially?”

“One of the relics from the trophy room. Laurien made the mistake of exchanging it with your betrothed, but no matter. We have other objects of worth to send you off with.”

“Well, I will be sure to make you and _papa_ , as well as the name of House Montilyet, proud.” It was a practiced response, one that Josephine knew would make her mother smile and nod in acceptance.

And, as she expected, it did just that. “I expect nothing less from you, _mia cara_.”

"Yvette must be finished with her art lessons now. Excuse me, _mamma_ , I will leave you to your own leisure." With a quick cheek kiss in parting, Josephine hurried from the sunroom.

Without her mother staring her down, Josephine allowed herself to feel the excitement of the news. Since she came back home in the spring of that year, Josephine had yet to leave the city, instead spending much time with her father in the study or dragging back and forth between the villa and the Otranto estate.

Coming from years spent abroad, her return home had felt as if she were thrown in a cage and locked away indefinitely. Her body ached for freedom yet again, and though this was just a little glimpse, a tiny chance at a breath of fresh air, Josephine couldn’t help to think: if this went well, she could earn back her release.

*****

The Comte wasn’t available to welcome Josephine when she arrived the afternoon before the gala, two weeks after her departure from Antiva, but the servants had been waiting patiently at the gates of his mansion with kind smiles and bright faces.

From what she’d be told by the steward, Comte Boisvert had been called away for a diplomatic assembly. The matters discussed between the Orlesian delegates and the Antivan envoy were in relation to the gala itself; some last-minute talks about added security to ensure protection of Prince Azrin.

It was a sensible excuse, but one that did not go unnoticed by the nobles he’d called for. “To extend his apologies, the Comte has arranged for a small banquet dinner in your welcoming honor,” said the steward to Josephine and the other Antivan nobles she’d arrived with.

“Hm,” came the hum from one of the Lords beside her, “a _small_ banquet? Does the Comte see our good interests and pledges of friendship as such inferior that he welcomes us with promise of a _small_ banquet?”

“Lord Alesso Ricci, _please_ hold your tongue. The Comte sends his deepest regrets, and he will hope to receive you properly later in the evening,” the steward said. “Now, shall we embark on a tour of the rest of the grounds?”

“He will hope?” The Lord continued, even as the steward began to walk off. “That insinuates he has a choice in the matter, and he is choosing to not fully commit to receiving us properly. _Tch_ , such hospitality.” To Josephine, he murmured, “To be frank, I’d have more of a welcome in the house of _courtesans_ than here.”

Josephine’s eyes widened when she realized what he’d said, her lips fighting the twitch of a smile. “ _Oh!_ I…admire your forthrightness,” she whispered aside, following a step behind the crowd, “but perhaps this should prove a compelling reminder that our customs and values differ across the border. It would be wise to take that fact into consideration before you continue to voice your concerns. Unless, you’d _prefer_ to lay your head in the bed of a courtesan for the remainder of your stay.”

“I only _jest_ , my Lady! I understand Orlesians are not so invested in _la bella figura_ as we are. It is enough, for their standards, that the Comte even arranged for a welcoming banquet. I should remind myself to hold my tongue as an honorable guest here, though, at your suggestion of laying my head elsewhere tonight, well, a man can’t help but to think of the possibilities!”

“I will admit, I am not familiar with the accommodations discovered within a house of courtesans, but I suspect it to be _unparalleled_ to that of a Comte’s reception.”

“Well, if you can find me a soft silken bosom to cradle here tonight, I may revoke my prior conviction.”

Josephine let a noise of amusement slip from her throat. “You know, I must say, not many would speak so freely as you do to someone they’ve _just_ met.”

The Lord grinned, shrugging carelessly. “A compliment I am familiar with. My mother always told me I’d talk my way into trouble rather than talk myself out of it. And, it seems that my talk has made no room for my manners. Forgive me for being so forward. I am Alesso Ricci, as you may have heard, and you are…?”

“Lady Josephine Montilyet, Ser,” Josephine greeted, prim and proper.

“ _Ah_ ,” Alesso drawled, hands folded behind his back. “You are Adorno’s promised one? I apologize for not realizing much sooner. It befuddles me to think that Adorno was lucky enough to secure the hand of such a beautiful woman, such as yourself.”

“Adorno is a good person,” she said. “He is sweet, loyal, and honest, and I am thrilled to be betrothed to such a fine man.”

“Are you trying to convince _me_ of that, or are you trying to convince _yourself?_ ” Alesso wriggled a brow, and for a moment, Josephine paused, unsure of what to say to that. “Hmm, I see.”

“What- I…do not know what you are insinuating,” she stammered, cheeks slightly warm in embarrassment from not finding the words quick enough, “but whatever it is, you must be mistaken. My betrothal to Adorno is-”

“-You need not lie to me, my Lady,” Alesso dismissed with a wave. “I can tell when someone is dissatisfied with the hand they’ve been dealt.”

“You call my bluff, but this is no game of cards we are playing, my Lord.”

“Yes, yes, keep trying to convince yourself otherwise.”

Josephine pressed her lips together. She kept quiet the rest of the tour, so sure that she’d continue to make a fool of herself somehow if she spoke again. Alesso was confidently triumphant, though, a smirk tugging on his lips whenever he looked over at her, his chatter bold and aimless and always somehow thrown in her favor.

It reminded Josephine too much of her brothers, the way he would talk out of line and behave so recklessly, and she had half a mind to simply reprimand the man for his poor etiquette.

At the end of the tour, Alesso took one of Josephine’s hands and pressed his lips to her knuckle. “I will be seeing you at the banquet, Lady Josephine,” he bid farewell, a gesture that was at least a bit more proper.

Josephine bit back her sarcasm, trying not to sigh so heavily. “I look forward to seeing you again, Lord Alesso.”

With another smirk and a wink, Alesso went on his way, accompanying some of the other nobles paying visit to the Comte’s wine cellar. Meanwhile, the servants brisked Josephine and the rest of the nobles through the vestibule and up the winding staircase to the west wing.

Accompanying Josephine to her bedchambers were two other maids and Ida herself. Her things had already been brought up, and once the door was shut, Josephine’s entourage went to work, preparing her for the welcoming banquet.

Josephine was glad to finally be in a place where she could breathe without being poked fun at, but Ida’s excitement swept away all chance of relaxing. “My Lady, did you notice?” Ida tittered, pulling Josephine’s hair free from its chignon. “Lord Alesso was giving you _the eyes_.”

Josephine let her dress fall off her shoulders and be taken away. She stepped into the bathing room that was steamy and sweet with scents of chamomile and lavender, slipping into the tub with a pleasurable sigh. “ _The eyes?_ What do you mean by that, Ida?”

“He was looking at you with _interest!_ The signs of flirtation were so obvious, how could you not see?”

“Oh,” Josephine blinked, leaning back against the tub. “Ida, you know you shouldn’t fuel such gossip. My betrothal to Adorno is known amongst the upper nobility. The Lord’s words were kind, but I do not believe he meant much by them, and to think otherwise would be irresponsible.”

Ida sucked her teeth, gently massaging the rose scented soap into Josephine’s scalp. “Well, Lord Ricci seems to be taking advantage of the absence of your betrothed. His intentions are _clearly_ more than complimentary, Jo- my Lady.”

“He is just being _polite._ ”

“Speaking freely,” Ida continued, stubborn as she was, “I believe you should entertain him tonight at the banquet. You are in Val Royeaux not so often these days, and you should leave with something of a personal gain. There is no harm in having some conversation, yes? And if something else were to come of the conversation, it could prove to be a bit of… _stress relief_ , maybe.”

“What _more_ could possibly come out from a simple conversation?”

“Well, he did mention wanting to cradle a soft silken bosom tonight,” Ida said, eliciting giggles across the room.

Josephine’s jaw slacked, her cheeks burning at the implication of such…such a _thing._ “Ida!” She exclaimed, flicking some water back at her. “I am a promised woman! I wouldn’t dare betray Lord Adorno’s faith! Besides, my mother and father instilled their trust in me,” Josephine continued. It felt like gossip in the schoolyard between little girls, and though Josephine and Ida had their fair share of tidbits, the presence of the other two maids left no room for their usual candor. “To be sent here meant that they trust me to do what’s right for the family. And that means behaving appropriately, which is something _you_ should be doing. It would be best if you refrained from speaking freely for the rest of the night.”

Ida lowered her head, mumbling out an apology, but Josephine could almost see her handmaid’s smirk.

Once her hair and makeup were done and the next dress in her wardrobe was slipped on, a servant came to fetch Josephine and escort her to the ground floor. The welcoming banquet was held in the dining hall, long and stretching high over her head. There was nothing but gold and pearl in this part of the house, chandeliers glistening with light that bounced off the many mirrors and silver cutlery on the table.

Josephine was one of the firsts to arrive. Lord Alesso, already in attendance, raised a hand in acknowledgement, pale grey eyes lingering on her own. He tilted his head toward the empty seat to the right of him. It was an invitation, one that Josephine couldn’t deny so outright.

Josephine smiled and nodded, and Alesso stood to pull her chair out for her. When she neared, she noticed his curly hair was slick with oils, the coils soft and fresh with the scent of musk and vanilla. He wore a velvet vest and a white undershirt, the top few buttons undone with no lingering chaste. “Pleased to see you again, Lady Josephine,” he greeted, waiting until Josephine had settled up against the table before taking his own seat again.

Josephine made no comment on his attire, though she did raise a brow. Antivans were cheeky individuals, but to dress tactlessly at a welcoming banquet hosted by the Comte…ah, never mind, it seemed _fitting_ as an Alesso Ricci thing to do. “How are you finding the accommodations, my Lord?”

“Subpar, at best. Perhaps the Comte could learn a thing or two about a welcoming reception. He could do with some lovely men and women coming to pull our chairs out for us, a sweet-tongued madame here, a stellar dance performance there…don’t you agree?”

“Hm, you should bring these concerns of yours to the Comte. He may put them into consideration for the next reception he hosts.”

“Well, let us first see if the man of the hour even shows up.”

Against Alesso’s doubt, the Comte _did_ arrive, moments after the last Antivan had their seat at the table. Audric Boisvert hadn’t time to freshen up, still in his finest leather and wool that he’d worn to his meeting, but he greeted them all happily, hoping to smooth over any dissatisfactions with their stay up to this point.

Any feelings of the sort were quickly put to rest when the food and drink came out. It was an impressive display of meats and cheeses and steamed vegetables, paired with bottles of wine left unopened since the previous Ages. The Comte made sure to elaborate on the fact: “This is a bottle from 8:53 Blessed. I have been saving it for only the most special occasion, and what occasion could be more special than welcoming you all, my _friends_ , to my home?”

The Comte’s words were sweet, but necessary, though it didn’t seem to take much to please the Antivan nobles.

For the most part of the dinner, Alesso didn’t bother her. He was as well behaved as Josephine could expect him to be, laughing and chatting along with the others, but after the banquet, in the late hours of the evening, Alesso took her hand and whispered, “I’d like to have a chat with you. Privately, if I may.”

Josephine nodded, nervously looking to the other nobles who were lingering still. They seemed caught up in their wines, rooted in deep conversation with the Comte. Maybe they wouldn’t notice if the two of them slipped away together.

Josephine led them up to the west wing, her skin suddenly crawling with raised bumps of a chill. What was it that he wanted to discuss with her, with such a sense of urgency? They’d only just met, and it seemed awfully forward of him to ask for a private conversation so soon, but…wasn’t it Josephine herself that was leading him to her bedchambers? For a _private chat?_

Against her desires to not think about it, Josephine was reminded of Ida’s words when she pushed opened the door. Ida was at the table, her eyes wide as saucers when she saw Alesso following in after Josephine. Before she could say anything, however, Josephine dismissed her for the night, adamant on hearing minimal sass.

But Ida, insufferable as she was, didn’t leave without a whisper in her ear. “Have fun,” she giggled. “I’ll have a tea prepared for the morning after, if you need it.”

Josephine’s cheeks warmed but she said nothing. Once Ida had shut the door, Josephine looked to see Alesso already out on the balcony. For a moment, she thought about backing away. Leaving, as to not be seen alone with him and fueling potential gossip. It would’ve been the right thing to do. It would’ve been sensible. But…she’d come this far already. She might as well see it through. Josephine took a deep breath and finally joined his side.

“So, what was it that you wished to speak to me about?”

“I just wished to speak,” Alesso said, pearly whites gleaming in the light of the moon.

Josephine cocked a brow, arms folding over her chest. “You made it sound as if the contents of our discussion were to be grave.”

“No gravity here, unless you wish for it.”

Josephine let out a slow and controlled breath. She looked to the sky, the moon and the stars, anything that wasn’t him. “Well, you were the one who wished to speak, so it is fitting that _you_ should lead.”

“Yes, I should, shouldn’t I?” Alesso, after a moment of silence, asked, “What do you know of my family name?”

Josephine pondered for a moment. “House Ricci is known for their extensive chains of taverns and inns across Antiva, though in recent years, your family has extended to other commercial businesses.”

“Correct. But what do you know of our history, the humble beginnings of the Ricci empire?”

“Not much, to be honest,” Josephine wearily replied.

“As expected,” Alesso sighed. “We are not a House that has always been wealthy. We began as farmers in the countryside, settled in a small village I'm sure you have never before in your life heard of. It is called Norsbury, located far west from the City, and it was, at the time of my earliest ancestor, a very small settlement with only three families.”

It was clear that Alesso was in the beginnings of a long story. Josephine, having not expected their _conversation_ to take this course, was more than relieved, though _slightly_ disappointed. She turned to him now, adamant on hearing him completely.

“Norsbury had grown in size and population over the years. My ancestor who began the legacy of House Ricci was the youngest of seven children. His name was Emiliano, and he was born to the fields, and it was expected that he would die to the fields. A fate that he accepted without much of a fight.

One day, born out of an intrusive thought, Emiliano decided this lifestyle was no longer for him. He was bored. He was unhappy. He could not accept his fate as a poor farmer any longer. In the face of his family, he became bold enough to say no. This is not enough. We can have more.

So, Emiliano took a chance. He sold his favorite goat, packed his bags, said his goodbyes, and left the village and his family behind for the big city. He had a pocketful of gold, nothing more than a few pieces of bread and salted fish, and a spare set of clothes. When he arrived, the first to go was the salted fish. Then, the bread. Then, his spare set of clothes.

And finally, when his pocketful of gold had gone, he thought, what a fool I was, to think I could change my own fate. I mean, what could a _farmer_ possibly do in the city? He considered running back home, back to the only life he’d ever known, and begging for the forgiveness of his mother and father. He thought about admitting that he was being stubborn, admitting he was being selfish, accepting that he had hurt the ones he’d only been trying to help.

Emiliano had kept to small jobs during his stay in the city. Dirty work, that he was familiar with back at the farm. He mopped the floors of the local tavern, and one particular day, he found himself thinking about a song his mother often sung to him before bed. Emiliano began to sing.

The tavern owner said to him then, 'you have a lovely voice. Can you play a lute?'

And Emiliano said back, 'I can. I picked one from the bins when I was twelve and taught myself how to play.'

'Well, why are you here mopping the floors? Why are you not on the stage performing?'

'I am not a performer. I am just the one who mops the floors.'

'I do not care what you are, but you have a talent, friend, and you should make good use of it.’

So, Emiliano sung, and he performed on the stage in the local tavern he once mopped the floors of. He brought much business to this tavern, more business in a night than the owner had seen in a whole year. Over time, Emiliano and the tavern owner became partners, and when the owner passed, he left the deed to Emiliano.

It was then he established the many chains of businesses that House Ricci is famous for. It was he who took the chance and changed the fate of my family name. You told me to speak, and so I have. Now let me ask so you may speak, do you know what the purpose of me telling this story was?"

Josephine blinked a few times, her head tilted slightly in confusion. She was, quite frankly, at a lost for words. “There is a lesson here, I am sure, but whatever this lesson is, I apologize, but I do not know what it is.”

“I see too many people as… _bland,_ for lack of a better word. Their way of living is bland, their way of thinking is bland; they are simply just _tasteless_. They wake up and go about their days and fall asleep at night only to repeat the same thing tomorrow, accepting that this is how it must be, every day, for the rest of their days. And why do you think that is?”

“I- perhaps…they are just…familiar with the routine?”

“Yes,” he proudly exclaimed, “that is _exactly_ what it is! They are not uncomfortable enough to step outside of their comfort zone. They do not want to make change, because why should they? They find contentment in what they do, how they do, but does that mean they are happy with their lives? No. Not necessarily. They sit and let life happen to them, but they themselves do not make life happen. Are you following?”

Josephine nodded slowly, letting his words settle over her. “I believe so.”

“Good. Now, let us take a look at your own life. What was it that brought you here?”

“A…responsibility to my family and to my Prince.”

Alesso tsk’d. “See, that is _bland_ thinking. You are not thinking outside of your comfort zone. Step out of it, my Lady, be free from this box you place yourself in and consider the truth: why did you _really_ come here?”

Josephine knew the real answer, but she couldn’t will herself to speak it into existence, because doing so would admit that she was selfish. Doing so would admit that she had thoughts for herself, rather than thoughts for her family. Doing so would admit that she just wished to be free again, to get away from her home life, that cage she willingly placed herself in for the good of everyone but herself.

It was why she’d brought Alesso to her bedroom in the first place, wasn’t it? To feel that seemingly ancient feeling again. A youthful exuberance. A thrill. A retribution, against the resentment she felt in her heart.

Josephine gulped the uncomfortable lump in her throat, wishing she had some type of drink to hold her over. “How do you propose I go about doing…that? Stepping outside of this box that you speak of?”

“Freedom lies in being bold, my Lady,” Alesso said with a kind smile. “If you wish to be free, be bold in everything you do. Make the decisions on your own accord, not on anyone else’s. It is then that you learn what freedom truly is.”

*****

When it came time for the guests to arrive, Josephine and the rest of the Antivan nobles found their places in the ballroom.

She stood in line besides Alesso who, surprisingly, had dressed dapper in a full dark silk suit. He was silent as they all listened to the Comte explain the night’s order of events. Then, when it came time for the doors to be opened at sunset, they remained in their spots, a pretty regiment with the Comte at their head.

Almost immediately after the doors opened, the Comte’s home flooded with guests; people from renowned household names were welcomed and ushered into the ballroom, a wave of glimmering gold and silk and jewels. Men and women from all over Val Royeaux, Orlesians, in their fashion that was fast and exorbitant; feathers and glass slippers and large hats; it was clear there was no shying away from the most excess tonight.

Josephine felt underdressed in comparison.

Once everyone had settled in the ballroom, the Comte took to the spotlight. He prepared a welcoming speech that went over Josephine’s head. She’d heard it all before; a thanks for everyone being in attendance, a promise for an enjoyable night out, a hope that all would go well…

His speech ended promptly. Then, preceding with fanfare and an entourage of armed guards, was the arrival of the guest of honor, Prince Azrin himself.

Everyone seemed to hold their breath as the Prince whisked by, across the ballroom and up to where the Comte stood above everyone else. As pretty as a picture, a beacon of light in his ivory and gold embroidered suit, his crown sat prettily on his head of fair hair, almost as rich as his smile was.

He was the King’s second-oldest son, the one next in the line of succession, as the first Prince had fallen ill to disease some time ago. A bachelor still, he was older than Josephine by a few years, and it was only just recently that Prince Azrin made himself known to the public. In the City, he was a favored topic of discussion, and rightfully so. He was just _gorgeous_ in the limelight.

Josephine realized she herself wasn’t breathing when Alesso had lightly bumped his elbow into hers. “You are beginning to drool,” he whispered.

Josephine flushed, catching herself. “I am _not_.”

“What’s that on your lip, then?”

Self-consciously, Josephine broke her position of attention, a finger dabbing at the corners of her lips. She frowned when she found nothing of the sort, though a pleased smile stretched across Alesso’s face. “Ugh. You are _insufferable_.”

“Oh, you are _too_ kind.”

The Prince expressed his gratitude, similar to the speech Audric Boisvert had just made, and with his commencement, the gala then began. The crowd dispersed as the live band picked up on their instruments, a seamless transition to the start of one very long night. Josephine let her shoulders slouch once the hundreds of eyes had left their attention.

“Save me a dance for later?” Alesso asked of her, hand gentle on the small of her back. Josephine nodded, then, with eyes hungry as a wolf’s, Alesso disappeared after the train of some woman’s dress.

Josephine stood on her own for a while, glancing around at all the moving parts surrounding her. It was…very overwhelming, to say the least. She forgot how busy parties such as these could be; with so much stimulus being thrown in her face, she wasn’t sure what to do. It had been a while, and it was very clear she was out of her element.

Most of the guests in attendance were people she was familiar with already. Her time in the Orlesian court meant picking out and recognizing every style, every color, every material of the masks they hid behind; telltale signs of their status and their affiliation. Gathered in one corner was a group of younger nobles, ones she’d met once or twice while at Court, and with high hopes, she came to approach them, seeking their cover.

For some reason, she wasn’t as excited as she once was for the gala. She felt…off, suddenly. An uncomfortable weight had settled in the pits of her belly, and her mind seemed foggy, unclear, like staring through a window hazy with the cool morning mist. Maybe it was the corset she wore, cinching in her midsection and making it difficult to take a lungful of air, coupled with the presence of hundreds of bodies around her, and the thick and heavy midsummer humidity.

Yes, that must have been it; she was lacking in oxygen.

To combat that feeling of suffocation, she tried to focus on the group’s deep conversation about hound dogs and ripped coats. She laughed when they laughed, sipped from her glass when they did, and nodded along with every word that came from their lips, but frankly, Josephine couldn’t hear a single word that was being said.

Josephine was instead thinking of slipping away for a moment, of finding some time alone in the gardens where nobody would bother her. Away from the party, where she could find the space to just _breathe_. “Excuse me for a moment, while I fetch myself another drink,” Josephine said once she’d had enough, but the crowd didn’t so much as acknowledge her leave. Thankfully.

Already, she could feel the pressure around her body loosen. She stopped at the refreshments table and replaced her empty flute with a filled one. With a sigh of release, she pressed back against the edge, putting some pressure off the balls of her feet.

Josephine scanned the ballroom from her position, searching for a quick and easy way out. Alesso was by the doors to the back garden, head thrown back in laughter with several dainty hands on his shoulders. She’d surely get caught by him on the way out, so instead, she looked again for an alternative route.

She scanned the space a second time, considering going back through the front doors, but then, she paused her search suddenly, because she saw _her_ from across the room.

A new face in an old place.

A fresh breath of air.

_Her._

Warm blonde hair, touched with the shades of yellows and reds prevalent in a field of golden wheat. It was braided in the way Orlesian women did, coiled and curled tightly into itself at the back of her head. Skin the color of a tawny beige, stretched across the features of a sharp nose and even sharper jaw. It ran flush down her neck and disappeared underneath the high collar of a black brocade, overgrowing with vines like wild ivy.

Josephine had never found such richness, such wealth, such life to exist in another’s pair of eyes. She imagined standing in the middle of the sunroom back at the villa, staring at the deep greens pressing against the glass, made to glow with the light of the golden setting sun, and though the world was always so quiet in the sunroom, it was there, in her eyes, that Josephine seemed to know peace.

_Her._

She held Josephine’s gaze rather than looked way, steady, curious, backed with enough allure that it made Josephine’s breath catch in her throat. She was shining. So brightly, it almost hurt to look at her. But Josephine didn’t dare tear her gaze away. Instead, she embraced the pain, the ache that seemed to manifest right in the middle of her chest, just underneath the layers of her dress and her skin and her bone.

_Oh, Maker._

Josephine clutched at her chest, if only to make sure her heart was still beating; yes, hastened, but still true. It wasn’t often that somebody caught Josephine’s eye like this. She was rather timid in her ways, reserved in her affections. Feeling too much while at court was detrimental; it was foolish and not worth the amount of danger it could pose.

But whoever this woman was, tall, roguish, and achingly beautiful, Josephine wanted to run the risk with her. She wanted to be closer to her, wanted to breathe in her scent, wanted to know her name.

Her professors at the University had talked of a new theory rising in the science department; the theory of such a phenomenon labeled as ‘gravity.’ Josephine never could wrap her head around the idea. It was too much theory and thought, not enough concrete evidence or sure facts, and it made her head spin and burn out with frustration.

Science was never her strong suit to begin with. She was weary of the unknown, and this idea of ‘gravity,’ it just didn’t make any sense to her. Curvatures of spacetime and uneven distributions of mass, quantum particles and their fluctuations; what did all the words even mean? And how could such a thing be measured and observed and recorded in the first place, when such a thing couldn’t even be seen?

But standing there, across the ballroom from this woman, it seemed to suddenly click in Josephine’s mind then.

Gravity; a force between any two masses, any two bodies; a constant push and pull; what built a little bit of friction between the moon and the sun and the earth, just enough to make the oceans rise and fall and the day turn to night. An unseen force of nature; holding the world together, round and round and round as it went.

Heart leading her mind, standing there, across the ballroom from this woman, Josephine seemed to understand what it was now. It was a feeling, an unspoken attraction that somehow, she understood better than any explanation her professors could give. It was what kept Josephine’s feet on the ground as she moved, gravitating towards the woman’s center, swept up in the force of her pull, drawing Josephine in closer and closer from across the room.

Her insides tugged with greater force with every step she took, and that feeling, that ache in her chest, seemed to swell up more as she grew nearer.

Yes.

She knew what it was, now.

This simple, yet complex feeling.

Josephine found the woman was even more enticing up close, with the scars that hid away from a distance, telling of stories Josephine wished the pleasure of knowing. The woman smelt of leather and wood and a salty sea breeze, cool, like a beautiful summer’s day at the docks on the Bay, and by the Maker, did it want Josephine to get closer.

As close as humanly and inappropriately as possible.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No thoughts, just Josephine.
> 
> If she seems a little out of character, it's intentional (pls don't h8 me) because this is before bamf-Inquisition-ambassador Josephine.
> 
> Also, Alesso is a bro and I kinda love him??


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> > _I have heard the sound  
>  A song in the stillness,  
>  The echo of Your voice,  
>  Calling creation to wake from its slumber.  
>    
>  **-Trials 1:3**_  
> 

[Evelyn Nerys Trevelyan](https://www.flickr.com/photos/190990052@N03/50589177326/)

Out at sea, away from the friends that brought out an unruliness to her being, Evelyn liked to be in control. She liked to have things go a certain way, though, she lacked the meticulous planning that _directed_ these things to go a certain way. Instead, she only sort of wished for the best at the very last moment, charging in headfirst and shouting commands on the fly, only becoming _slightly_ irritated when things didn’t work out in the end.

It was a habit born out of the years spent being underneath someone’s authority. Evelyn had learned that it was easier to follow, to listen, to obey and do, and that it was more difficult to lead, to speak, to command and direct. She had an instinctual desire to please everyone, and she could do just that, provided someone else told her what was up and what was down beforehand.

Evelyn needed guidance. She relied on it. She thrived off others. But, since she’d been given that power of authority, that overseeing role as a _Captain_ , she now had to be the one to know what was up and what was down, though it proved troubling most times, considering she could rarely differentiate right from left.

She had become the one that people turned to for guidance. Isabela was still a rank higher than she, but now, Evelyn had others _below_ her, and it was, though she wouldn’t dare admit it to anyone, a responsibility that frustrated her to no end. It was partly her fault, really. She expected too much from her crew, hoping they would simply understand her thoughts without her ever opening her mouth.

But hope only led to disappointment, and Evelyn did _not_ like to be disappointed.

She was quick to irritate when something went amiss, an explosive with a short fuse. So, it said something terribly ironic that the members she’d accumulated for her crew were wildly boisterous in their ways. They were loud and defiant (a good chunk of them, at least), and though it wouldn’t have bothered her so much were she in their shoes, as _Captain_ , she had much to maintain.

She was supposed to bring order to the chaos; shine a light like a beacon drawing in ships from the darkness; uplift and empower; but Evelyn never learned how to be a leader, and maybe a part of her never even wanted to in the first place.

Her Quartermaster was the only one with sense, it seemed, fitting snug right into her assigned role. Cassandra was a decade her senior, give or take some, with the years of a disciplined lifestyle showing in how she easily whipped the crew back into place. Her iron-fist and razor-sharp teeth instilled fear, which, fear on its own, could control and direct, but Cassandra was more than just a fire-breathing dragon.

She was a symbol of pride, a woman of impetuous passion, and a better leader than Evelyn could ever be. It was why she appreciated her Quartermaster so much, but that appreciation bordered on reliance.

The other members of the crew, this small, special bunch, were, to put it simply, the sparks to a flame that had yet to erupt. Though Evelyn did not deal with them directly, Cassandra was still an extension of her; another short fuse barely extending her own. And always, there were sparks made and fires set; so often so, that Evelyn was surprised that the Bannered Mare was still intact.

The first spark of friction on the voyage to Val Royeaux came with the _thump_ of barrels and crates being moved around the deck. Evelyn had ignored it, quill skittering across paper in the dim light of the night. Then came the _clunk_ of heavy glass bottles meeting the wooden floorboards right outside her door. Evelyn had ignored that, too, the point of her quill wearing flat from added pressure. When there came a _thunk_ against one of her windows, her quill slipped in her hand and a bold streak ran through the words on her paper.

_“We’re trying to see who can knock the most bottles off while blindfolded!”_

_“Could you not have moved the bottles to the other side of the deck, so you are not_ throwing rocks at the windows? _”_

_“Oh yeah, that would’ve been smart, huh?”_

_“I should throw_ you _across the deck.”_

The second spark came after a long and tiresome practice session with Cassandra. The incident in the slave caverns had encouraged Evelyn to train harder, and Cassandra didn’t need to be told twice not to hold back. Her Quartermaster made an example of her, which, frankly, she had expected, but her pride still hurt all the same. When she’d left to go lick her wounds in peace, a bucket of water had found itself perched on top of her cabin door. Her clothes were soaked through and through, and Sera had only barely escaped punishment.

_“What is stopping me from tying you up and stringing you along the keel? Since you love the water so much, it should be no issue, right?”_

_“Keelhauling is a bit extreme, Cass. Luckily for Sera, these clothes need to be thrown in the wash anyways. Now both of you,_ get the hell out of my room. _”_

The final spark, the one that burst from the friction of these unruly members and their knack for trouble, setting fire to the fuse, had come on the last morning of their voyage.

Evelyn was feeling the beginnings of a headache coming on. Her temples pulsed with every shout that came from outside the doors of her quarters. The morning she hoped would be productive had instead become one heavy with interference, riddled with distraction that made it impossible to read the reports in front of her.

She couldn’t pick out what it was being said, words blending into laughter and the thundering of footsteps, but at some point, once she heard the tell-tale shouts of panic and Cassandra’s mighty roar that signaled she was completely and utterly _done_ , Evelyn finally decided that enough was enough. She’d let them slide for all the time they were on the waters (or more like she let Cassandra yell at them a bit to get her frustrations out), but when Cassandra reached that point of no return, Evelyn knew it was her turn to set things straight.

Evelyn slammed her palms on the surface of her desk and pushed her chair back. With heavy steps, she crossed her room and tore open the door leading to the main deck. Her Quartermaster stood in the center of it all, fists curled at her sides with the muscles at her neck tense.

Not far off from Cassandra was the large Tal-Vashoth man who insisted everyone call him _The_ Iron Bull, with emphasis on the article. He was on the receiving end of her shouts, seemingly tiny despite his towering edge over Cassandra. Just to the side of him was Sera, the elven rogue mastermind of all things trouble, dangling from one ankle tied to the boom pivoting from the mainmast. Behind Bull, caught in the webs of the shrouds with his legs, arms, and chest wrapped in thick rope, was Bull’s trusty Lieutenant, a man known to the crew as Krem.

“Let me ask you this, Sera,” Cassandra growled, taking a step toward the rogue, “do you ever tire of making my life _more difficult_ than it needs to be?"

Sera crossed her arms, gently swaying back and forth. Her neck and cheeks were turning scarlet with blood rush. "Are you _kiddin'_ me? Do you know how _tiring_ it is tryna figure out how to break all the rules? I'm exhausted _all the friggin' time!_ "

“You are _the worst_ -”

Sensing a heated outburst that would only do more harm than good, Evelyn loudly cleared her throat, gathering the attention of her crewmembers. She looked from the dangling Sera, to the timid Bull, to the innocently smiling Krem, then over to the furious Cassandra. “What’s the issue here?” She grumbled, arms crossed and foot tapping impatiently. “Why is everyone _yelling?_ ”

"I just want you to know, I was supervising, not participating," Bull quickly clarified. "It was all Sera's idea."

Sera’s eyes bulged from her head. She lunged forward, the rope only getting her so far. “What? Why, you big ole’ cheeky bastard! I outta-”

"-Sera and Liutenant Cremisius wished to find out if one could swing from the foremast to the mizzenmast on a rope. Not surprisingly, it did not end well,” Cassandra said through gritted teeth.

Evelyn heavily sighed, rubbing at her temples. Her eyes shut to regain her composedness, the pounding in her head only intensifying with the added stress. “Should I even ask _why_ you thought that would be a good idea?”

“Krem said in the Imperium the circus people pulled stunts like it all the time, so I thought, that sounds wicked cool, why not try it out? I didn’t think he’d be pulling my leg. Literally!” Sera nasally explained. “Plus, it’s been getting boring around here and we needed some fun thrown in before we threw ourselves overboard!”

“Bull,” Evelyn managed with a leveled tone, “please cut Sera down. You don’t need to be gentle.”

“Got it, Cap.”

“Hey, wait-a-minute-oof!” Sera landed with a hard thump, and without letting her recover, Evelyn snatched the back of her shirt and hauled her to her legs.

"Sera, I'm going to need you to get up there and find out how to untangle Krem from that mess, and when you’re done, I’m going to need you to get back up to the crow's nest and _do your job_ ," Evelyn finally snapped, a finger jabbing skyward. "You're going to _stay_ up there and _not_ come down until we drop anchor. _Do you understand me?_ "

Sera stumbled out from Evelyn’s grip, rubbing off her shoulders with a huff. "Yeah, yeah," she mumbled, sucking on her teeth. Sera dragged herself over to the shrouds with a, "You're no fun, Cap."

Bull snickered, but before he could retort, Evelyn swiveled on her heels, turning to face the mercenary ox-man. "And Bull," she seethed, "I'm going to need you to reel in your Chargers. There’s been too many accidents involving them already, and I did not hire you all to come mess around the ship like it’s a playground. You're their Chief. Act like it. Get them to behave or so help me I'm throwing each of you off the side of the boat myself."

Bull, realizing he was not exempt from Evelyn’s lecture, cleared his throat and saluted. “Aye, aye, Captain. I’ll have a nice long chat with Krem once Sera gets him out of trouble.”

"There's only a few more hours left until we dock. I better not hear another word until then," Evelyn threatened with a stern finger, first at Bull, then at Sera and Krem. She then looked at her Quartermaster before turning on her heels. “Cassandra, come with me.”

“Ooooh!” Sera cooed from above. “Somebody’s in for a talking to!”

Cassandra’s response was to slam the cabin door behind her.

The Quartermaster roughly tugged a chair out from the small dining table and plopped down in the seat, wasting no time to get to the root of her frustrations. “Ugh! The Iron Bull and Sera have been nothing but a _pain_ in my side this entire trip!” She reached for one of the glasses and the bottle of gin, pouring herself a much-needed drink. "No, the _entire time_ they have been on this ship! They are _irresponsible_ , they are _lazy_ , they _do not listen_ to authority, and though I respect your decisions as commanding officer, I do not know _what_ possessed you to integrate them into our team!”

Evelyn propped an elbow on her desk and leaned her head onto a fist. She picked up the stack of papers she was going over before the interruption, deciding whether she wanted to ask Cassandra to pour her a glass or not. Evelyn sighed, deciding against it, and instead waved the stack in her hand. “If it makes you feel any better, the Chargers’ contract expires soon.”

Cassandra turned her head sharply, her spine straightening in her seat. “Surely you must not be thinking about renewing it?”

“Maybe I am.” Evelyn waited for Cassandra’s reaction, but when there was no change in her expression, she continued speaking. “Bull and his Chargers have proven to be useful to us. I think, if we didn’t have them along, the Bannered Mare wouldn’t have survived the year. The trouble we’ve run into has only been escalating with Isabela popping back up on the Armada’s radar, and knowing her, it’s only going to get worse.”

Cassandra huffed into her glass. “Is there anything in the world that the Admiral loves more than herself?”

Evelyn hummed. There was a list she could’ve gone off of, Isabela not quite being as selfish as many thought she was, but she’d spare the damage to the Admiral’s reputation. For now. “Well, Bull and his Chargers are a great group of mercs when they’re not doing fuck-all. They’re individually trained for actual battle with a wide variety of style and class. Not to mention, it’s nice having a medic on board for when Sera drops out of the sky and thinks her kneecaps are made of steel.”

“Speaking of Sera,” Cassandra drawled.

“Sera is a different case altogether. She’s not necessarily bound to us by contract.”

“Then why does she remain here? We have been to Val Royeaux several times; we are even going there now. But still, she somehow finds her way back on the ship, and for what reason other than to give me trouble and headaches?”

“I don’t know, but we really need to have a sit down with Bull and Sera and discuss our…futures together.” It was then Cassandra’s expression curled and she went to pour herself a second glass. Evelyn couldn’t blame her. If they were enough to give _her_ a headache and she didn’t even deal with them, she couldn’t imagine how Cassandra truly felt. “Look, I know they’re a pain in the ass, but they’re important to us, Cass. They’ve helped us establish ourselves as a stable number of the Fleet. Not many ships survive their first year, you know, so maybe we should look into renewing the contract and, I guess, getting used to Sera’s company.”

Innovative pirates were flushed out of the seas rather quickly with the Armada and the numerous national Navies running the waters, and small crews with fresh sails were easy targets for them both. Isabela had only been successful launching her operation because the other two Captains in the Fleet were veteran sailors, men she’d known and sailed besides for decades.

Evelyn simply had luck, it seemed, her charms being the mercenary group she’d stumbled upon in the Storm Coast and the Friend of Charade that stuck ever since their first meeting. Cassandra seemed to understand it now. She sighed heavily and sulked deeper in her seat. “Just because they are crucial members of our company does not mean I have to like them.”

Evelyn, despite her somber mood and pulsing temples, smirked. “Sure.”

Deep down, she knew just how fond Cassandra was of them.

*****

It was well into the afternoon now, the sun laying low in the sky. Docking and registering with the harbormaster had taken much longer than anticipated. Apparently, with the Prince of Antiva being in the city, the price to weigh anchor had nearly quadrupled. Cassandra usually handled all the haggling, her intimidation enough to call off any unfair deal, but the harbormaster was persistent, even with Evelyn’s tact and attempts at a fair negotiation thrown in.

Her leftover ire from the morning caused her to snap and finally agree to the fee, not before Cassandra, readily with a temper of her own, had nearly tossed the man over the side of the pier. With skilled coercion, the harbormaster, _that scoundrel_ , managed to force a few extra gold pieces just to keep quiet.

The _nerve_ of that asshole. She had to applaud him for his bravery, though.

After two very long hours and an unfortunate defeat, they were finally on their way to the resort where they'd be staying. The _Tête de Plumes_ , it was called, a famously high-end, heavily guarded establishment. She would’ve preferred to stay aboard the ship or maybe one of the more familiar inns close by the harbor, but the false identities that Varric had created for them required only _the best_ accommodations possible.

One Lady Evelyn Amell, cousin of the Champion of Kirkwall twice removed, daughter to the currently imprisoned Damion Amell, and one Lady Cassandra Drakos (meaning dragon or, according to Varric, ogre which was more fitting), illicit lover to the Lady Amell, could not simply take refuge on the same ship that had brought them there.

And what other place was so undeniably prestigious than that of the sparkling gem near the center of the capital, where paramours and their Lords and Ladies could frolic in peace?

It was highly amusing at the time, maybe even more entertaining than some of their other personas that they assumed on missions such as these; plus, they weren’t paying for a single thing save for any extra indulgences; but Evelyn had no such remaining desire for lollygagging, though she dreaded going further into the city than the docks.

Her pace was hastier than usual as she led her and Cassandra further into Val Royeaux. Her gaze was set in front of her always, never lingering where it shouldn't have been, her jaw clenching and unclenching with tension in each passing second. Evelyn was a quick individual to begin with, but with the gala hours away and them not having settled down yet, the pulsing awareness of having lost too many hours urged her feet to move faster.

There was simply no time to take in the sights, not that she really wanted to in the first place. What more was there for her to see? She knew Val Royeaux. It used to be her home away from home, once upon a time.

With its tall and grandeur buildings, uniform with the colors of a deep shade of blue and white marble and shiny gold, a subtle display of royalty and prestige; with its citizens, _Royans_ , as they were called, equally as overbearing and grandiose as their city, in fast fashion taken to the extremes; with its Grand Cathedral, the heart of the Andrastian Chantry, where the Most Holy’s will was greatest, and where the presence of the Maker was undeniable and preeminent.

Like she was entering a den of serpents, Evelyn felt a tightness snake over her feet. It seemed to crawl up around her body, squeezing her arms and legs and chest tighter the deeper she entered the city. Her muscles felt nothing but pressure; tension, building and constricting underneath her skin, wanting to implode.

Evelyn flexed and curled her fingers at her sides, lip tugged in between her teeth. They were late, she kept reminding herself, they were hours behind, and they needed to be there, at the resort, getting ready, _now._ She clung to these statements in the present, the only coherent thoughts in her mind, and though they only made her more antsy, it was better to think about the gala than the fact that they would be coming up to the _Grand Cathedral_ very soon.

The closer they got to those sanctified shadows, the silhouette of the Grand Cathedral, the more skittish her steps had become, and still, her mind was telling her to _go faster_. She willed herself to listen, flighty instincts prevailing over the mental reminder that there was nothing wrong, that they would make it on time, that she was _safe_ in front of the towers and the tall gates, but a part of her couldn’t help to think: was she _really_ safe?

The towers and the tall gates, seen even from the boats on the harbor, made her feel safe and hopeful when she was _younger_ , but now… _now,_ they stood, an imposing and lingering reminder that she was but a speck of dirt on all that was pure and holy; undeserving, of even being in the shadows of its good graces.

The words were born out of a hissing tongue that was sharp and heavy; too familiar, too painful, and just enough to make her shudder and shake. Knots formed in her shoulders and neck, weighing her head down. She tried to cling to the gala, to her reminders that she chanted like a mantra in her mind, but that voice, _His_ voice, whispered in her ear, prevailing all other thoughts.

_“You must face atonement for your sins, daughter. Bow your head in the house of the Maker, and do not cast your undeserving gaze on His Holy image.”_

Evelyn kept her head down when they'd passed by the Sun Gates, thrown open for cloistered Sisters and Clerics and Templars to come pay their respects. It was strange to think that she could’ve been one of them, had she followed the path her family laid out for her.

It had only been her and Max left at the estate, the middle child that Evelyn had grown to forget lost in the Circle of Ostwick, and though there had been a fourth, she had all but perished before her time. Evelyn remained as the youngest Trevelyan, and with Max well on his way to inheriting all their lands and titles, what more was there for her than the life of a cloistered Sister or a steel-plated Templar?

She had downright refused to be married off like some other noble-blooded daughter. It was despicable how easily her father could have exchanged her hand to the highest bidder, like she was a commodity, a trophy to be paraded around on a strong arm and left at home to lounge around in the heat, doing not much else but producing sons to further the bloodline.

It was a life she was being prepared for the second she was born, but it was a life she never wanted in the first place. Often, Evelyn wondered just how easier things could’ve been had she just settled, had she just fought what she truly wanted out of herself and her life.

Because where had fighting gotten her, other than in places that were worse off than before?

 _And look at me now,_ she sorely thought, _look at what I’ve become._

There was no thought to solidify her method of escape, just the goal of moving and of getting to the resort as quick as possible. The sooner she was away from the gates, the better she would feel; the further she would be from her nightmares.

She just had to _go faster._

Evelyn side-stepped and bent her body, slipping through the busy streets like a fleeting gust of wind. It was a wonder Cassandra could keep up with her immediate maneuvering; uncharted, unplanned, bouts of movement that was quick and reflexive. Just briefly, once she was conscious of her extraneous speed, Evelyn glanced over her shoulder to ensure her Quartermaster was still on her heels.

Sure as she was, Cassandra was gently pushing her way through the crowd, much less graceful than Evelyn had done so. Evelyn let out a breath and turned back around, only to collide with a force coming from her right.

“ _Oh, excusez-moi!_ ” Came a startled voice.

Evelyn blindly reached out to stabilize the woman she’d literally run into, fingers curling around the soft fabric of her robe. “Oh!” she exclaimed. “I’m so sorry, I-” Red and white flashed in her view. A familiar shade of gold jumped out at her and trapped the rest of the words in her throat.

She paled once she realized what that springe of color was on the woman’s robe. It was such an ugly thing, squiggly and meager, like something that a child could have sketch out of boredom, and yet, it held so much more power over the world than anyone would care to admit, more power over _her_ than _she_ would care to admit.

It struck fear in not only her, but in groups of people, in collections of _nations_. It bent even the strongest warriors to their knees, led the most revered to pick up a sword and massacre thousands, all in the name of the _Maker_.

This thing, this _ugly thing_ , on every tapestry and every shield in some way, shape, or form. She wanted to say she _hated_ this thing. They couldn’t have come up with something that was a little easier on the eyes?

The heraldry of the Andrastian church burned in Evelyn’s irises, like staring directly at the bursting sun. She cursed and immediately threw herself back, treading on Cassandra's toes in the process. Evelyn bowed her head and rounded the cloistered Sister as if she were another obstacle in her way.

If she heard Cassandra utter a rushed apology behind her, she didn’t so much as acknowledge the Nevarran’s voice as much as she acknowledged that hiss in her ear. It felt like cold needles pressing against her skin, rushing a chill down her spine. Her father’s words were always spoken to hurt. Vicious, like poison, cutting, like fangs. He existed as a serpent in her mind, stronger there in the Grand Cathedral than he was anywhere else.

They couldn’t have reached the _Tête de Plumes_ fast enough.

Evelyn and Cassandra's refuge was up on the third floor, facing out towards the harbor. She could catch sight of the Bannered Mare and her sails if she squinted hard enough through the opened bay window, pass all the low-rise rooftops of marketplaces and modest homes. Her view was a nice splash of blue, white, gold, and red, accents of green vegetation, but there, in her peripheral, was also a darkness crawling.

“Captain.” Evelyn flinched. She glanced over her shoulders and blinked. Cassandra stood not far off from Evelyn with her arms folded over her chest. She raised a cautious brow. “Are you alright?”

Evelyn took a moment to respond. Her Quartermaster’s question seemed to reach her ears much earlier than it reached her mind. “Yeah. Sorry.” She turned back to the window, eyes straying to the shadows protruding from the earth like pillars holding the Heavens. “Were you saying something?”

Instead of Cassandra’s voice ringing through her ears, she heard a buzzing in the air. Evelyn craned her neck to get a better listen. It seemed to vibrate in a familiar frequency, white noise in her mind running clearer and intensifying in volume the more she honed in on it.

She shut her eyes in concentration; there was a strong brush in the wind, cold and unforgiving.

It carried with it, the song of the Chant of Light.

_Hear now, Andraste, daughter of Brona,_  
_Spear-made of Alamarr, to valiant hearts sing_  
_Of victory waiting, yet to be claimed from_  
_The steel-bond forgers of barren Tevene._

_Great heroes beyond counting raised_  
_Oak and iron 'gainst chains of north-men_  
_And walked the lonely worm-roads evermore._

Evelyn’s lips formed the words, the muscles in her throat and chest constricting to memory. “Mighty of arm and warmest of heart, rendered to dust. Bitter is sorrow, ate raw and often, poison that weakens and does not kill.”

She opened her eyes and shivered against the breeze. With a final glance at the shadows of the Grand Cathedral, Evelyn shut the window and turned away.

*****

“Don’t look now, but Lady Olwyna’s son seems taken by you,” came the rise and fall of her mother’s voice. It was a silvery sound; gentle, clear, melodious; like a hymn that she felt rumble deep down in her bones. Her memory was not quite strong; it seemed to shake in her recollection, but it was somehow still as lovely as the songbirds in the morning.

Evelyn scrunched her nose in an involuntary reflex. Despite her mother’s warning, she lifted to her toes and searched through the mass of twirling bodies. It was a wave of only the finest silks and wools, colors of crimson and black, emerald and gold. A spill of cerulean blue from the Amaranthine Ocean came through opened windows; the scent of too strong florals mixed with the salty sea breeze.

“Who’s Lady Olwyna?”

“Lady Olwyna is your great-aunt Lucille’s best friend. She and her husband own half of the gristmills in Ostwick, and her only son, Pedr,” her mother said, nudging Evelyn in the right direction, “is to inherit them all someday when he’s older.”

It was then Evelyn spotted said son, stealing shy glances across the room at her. He reminded her of the horses back at the ranch, with a nose much too long for his face, and hair that was a muted shade of red mixed with brown. She smiled tightly and waved. “Mam, he looks… _old_ ," she settled. Her mother always told her to mind her words.

“He’s only four years older than you are, which might as well be nothing short of an acceptable age difference. Would you like me to introduce you?”

“Mmm. I’ll talk to him in a bit. I’m _starving_.”

Her mother hummed, knowingly, but said nothing of it. She patted Evelyn’s back and sent her on her way. “I’ll let you go, then, but you be on your best behavior, alright?”

Evelyn nodded, though she was already halfway to the banquet table. She wasn’t exactly _starving._ Maybe she was a bit peckish, but her resolve was to simply find refuge elsewhere from her mother and to have an excuse to duck great-aunt Lucille’s imminent pestering.

She could spot the older Lady Trevelyan zipping through the crowd, on the move with an award-winning smile and perfectly curated words. It’d be best to escape early on, she found, when her great-aunt was too preoccupied with her greetings; she could slip right from underneath her upturned nose, then.

Her great-aunt Lucille wasn’t anything cruel, quite the opposite, really, but sometimes, with her hovering about, Evelyn felt there was never enough space to breathe. Honestly, it wasn't just great-aunt Lucille that she felt was too much, it was the parties, the _best summer and winter balls in all of northern Thedas_ , according to passing nobles.

Ugh. Evelyn _hated_ the parties. It made her itch like some terrible skin infection, and it might as well had been, considering how many people were in attendance in such close proximity. Too many people, too many things, too many sounds and voices and moving parts; it made her head _hurt._

It always felt as if the crowds were closing in on her, as if great-aunt Lucille's rooftops would collapse right on top of her. There were so many rules of etiquette that had to be followed, names and faces that had to be remembered. Oh, and there were always introductions needing to be made, talks to be had.

Always with some _boy_. Always someone’s _son_. Waiting to inherit some sort of property or business.

It was _irritating._

What did she care about _boys?_ They were funny looking and clueless little things, good to make friends with but not to have conversation with. And what was so interesting about _dancing_? It seemed so tedious and boring, with too many steps and not enough fun. She hated parties, and her parents knew it too, but she always had to come along.

Evelyn was close to dipping a lazy finger in the bowl of vanilla-flavored pudding before a pair of strong hands pressed down on her shoulders. They were calloused, rough from practice with a sword, but pretty, with a silver knot ring on the fourth right finger. Evelyn looked up.

She’d forgotten what he looked like, his face a long-forgotten shadow in her mind, but now, Maxwell’s face was as clear as day. His whimsical smile, charming and charismatic, with the shadow of a beard growing in; his hazel eyes, a mixture of their mother's gold with their father's true green; his cutting-edge square jaw, dotted with dark stars that made the picture of an unknown constellation.

He was such a good-looking man, the striking image of their father, but he was always so kind in comparison. A broad tower of strength, of safety, of confidence. Maker, he was _always_ so confident. He was the better one of the pair, seeming to fit right in with the crowd and their tedious dances and long talks.

Evelyn never could. Sometimes, she’d wished she were more like him, and sometimes, she still did.

“Alright, Nerys?” His voice was gentle when he spoke to her, soft and warm, like a two-armed hug that swept her off her feet and swallowed her whole. It chased away the cold in her limbs, the feeling of dead weight and too-tense muscles. She always felt at ease in his presence.

Evelyn sighed with relief. “Alright, Max.”

Maxwell tilted his chin, a single brow cocked in concern. “You feeling okay?” Evelyn shook her head. She could never lie to him. “Well, what’s wrong? Are you bored? Do you want to come dance with me and Clyde?”

“Euch, _no_.” Evelyn’s face turned up. “Why would you even ask that? You know I’m not good at dancing.”

Max chuckled. He always found her amusing, for some reason, like one would a tiny little child, except she wasn’t exactly _tiny_ or _little_ anymore. She’d grown to his chest now and was shooting up even more every day. “That’s funny. Alyse says you’ve been improving in your lessons together.”

“Alyse just tells mam that so I won’t get in trouble and so she doesn’t look like a bad teacher, _but she is_ ,” Evelyn whispered the last bit. “I still don’t know how to step correctly. I always miss the beat, or I put my foot in the wrong place, and Alyse says I’ll get better with more practice, but I’ve _been_ practicing, and I just _can’t_ seem to get it right!”

Her frustrations with the evening had built up early, ready to burst through her like a heavy stream pushing pressure on a dam. Maybe she was a bit hungrier than she thought, or maybe it was the sense of her body feeling all… _wrong_. It was as if she were panting in a sauna, the air thick and heavy with choking moisture; it _had_ been a warm summer in Ostwick that year.

“It’s good, Nerys, you don’t have to get it all figured out,” Max reassured. "You can stand on my shoes and I’ll do all the dancing for you, if you want.”

“No, I _don’t_ want to dance,” she stubbornly groused. “It’s _too hot_. I feel like my skin is on fire. I wanna _leave_ , Max.”

Six years apart; he was a man now, if the ring on his finger was any indicator, and she was a juvenile still. She was always so difficult, so impossible to manage, but Max had nothing but patience for her. He was a good brother. The _best._ He always seemed to know what was wrong before she did. It was as if he could read her mind and understand all the jumbled thoughts, pulling them into reason when she wasn’t able to.

Max bent down on one knee, even though their father would surely get upset were he to see. Men like Maxwell only kneeled before Kings and Prophets, not for silly little girls throwing tantrums. “Hey,” he said, eyes soft around the edges. “Forget about everyone else here. Just for a minute, focus on me.” Max took her hand in his. They were so small, held gently in his safe, harboring palms. There was still some black ink staining her fingertips from that morning’s lessons. “Remember this for me, Nerys. Remember to _breathe._ ”

The silver knot ring, once on Maxwell’s fourth finger, had found itself twisting and turning in Evelyn's own fingers. How she’d gotten it was a question she couldn’t readily answer, but looking down at the flaring emerald spoke words into her mind; the familiar words of her brother, a gentle reminder to just _breathe_.

She shut her eyes and inhaled.

A smell. Bitter, with a touch of pine, but fresh, like juniper berries in the spring.

She exhaled.

A voice. Kind, with a bit of an accent, but strong, like a heavy-handed fist.

She opened her eyes.

A woman.

Cassandra sat opposite from her, legs crossed. She looked different. Her leather and straps had been replaced with a dress. It was form-fitting, with a long slit in the right side of the leg, and golden curlicues that sprawled across the chest and down the sides to the waist.

Her usual crown braid was missing, instead giving the Nevarran several more inches of hair that ended just underneath her chin. It was styled in short curls that bounced when she moved her head, and on her face, only enhancing the intensity and brightness of her amber eyes, were dark smoky wisps of eyeshadow and a sharp line of kohl.

Evelyn blinked. When had they gotten there? Where even was _there?_ Evelyn peeked from behind the curtained window. The carriage they found themselves in had come to a stop in front of some grand estate in the hills of Val Royeaux. It was, like all the other homes in this neighborhood, not as distinguished but magnificent, nonetheless.

Behind the blue and gold caps of the mansion, the sun began to sink, coloring the sky a glowing shade of orange and pink. Her mind seemed to swirl, a murky puddle of brown liquid and distorted realities. How many hours had it been since they’d arrived to Val Royeaux? How did they even get to where they were, dressed like how they were?

Time from her leaving the Bannered Mare to her being at the gates of the estate seemed nonexistent, like she’d simply blinked and was transported from one moment to the next. She had no memory of the last few hours, and though that should’ve been cause for concern, Evelyn felt no such emotion. She simply felt… _confused_.

“Are you ready?” Cassandra asked.

Evelyn stared at her. “To…?”

Cassandra scrunched her nose up, her lips turned down at the corners. “To find this dagger and get this night over with?”

“Oh. Oh! Right, _the dagger_. Let’s go,” Evelyn flushed.

She stepped out of the carriage, offering a hand to help Cassandra down. The ensemble Cassandra had thrown together very much spoke of her personal style, but she was awkward in it, like a baby doe just learning how to walk on its strange new legs. She immediately hooked her arm with Evelyn’s, the heels on her feet throwing the usually balanced Quartermaster through a loop.

They walked through the gates of the estate and entered the central courtyard. It was beautiful, as expected, with well-kept marble and lush foliage illuminated with magical lamps. Royans in their extravagant dresses, suits, and masks mingled about, ebbing them along like a gentle stream.

There was a large fountain perched in the middle of the courtyard, with hedges and half-walls off to the sides, dividing into the east and west gardens of the grounds. Just behind the fountain was a staircase that broke into a middle landing, then another set of stairs that led to the double-door entrance of the home itself.

They made it through the front doors without so much as an utterance of their names and a glance thrown their way, blending in flawlessly like they belonged. Guards in their plain chainmail crawled through every nook and cranny of the mansion. All the doors she could see were shut and blocked off, hiding away the secrets that were kept behind them.

“How should we do this?” Cassandra murmured under the voices of the crowd. “Did the Admiral specify where the items were to be held?”

“No, she just said to find the Montilyet daughter and get the dagger,” Evelyn replied, eyes scanning their surroundings for any sort of obtrusion; an indication, any sort of clue of there being something amiss, but Isabela had been correct; the mansion was on high alert that night.

There seemed to be no trouble in store, but why did she feel as if _something_ were lurking in the shadows?

“And do we know what this daughter looks like?”

Evelyn’s eyes lingered on a dark corner, staring back at a pair of sharp points like horns on a Qunari. She snapped her head back, doing a double take, but on her second glance, it seemed she had mistaken it for some intricate piece of glass décor.

“Um, Isabela just said she was young. And Antivan.”

“Of course,” Cassandra rolled her eyes, “leave it to Isabela to be very thorough in her instructions.”

Shaking off the nerves, Evelyn kept her gaze forward. They followed the crowd into the ballroom, which was even more eloquent than the outside was. All of it was covered in white, gold, and blue, _painstakingly_ Orlesian. The ceiling climbed high over their heads, so high that Evelyn had to tip back to see the glass chandelier and the colorful mosaic that covered the top.

It seemed that they had just missed the welcoming speech, as the crowd was beginning to thin out. Some remained on the dance floor, stark in the middle of the room, with tall white columns spanning the perimeter; shiny griffon statues and silk blue drapes made their homes there.

Banquet tables were filled with platters of finger foods and desserts, salad bowls and main entrees of roasted boars and duck. Off to the side of the dance floor was a musical ensemble strumming along to a lovely tune. In the back of the ballroom was another set of doors, leading out to the gardens where the rest of the crowd spilled out.

“What is our game plan here?” Cassandra had asked her. “Should we find a noble and corner them into telling us which one is Montilyet?”

“We need to play it safe. No unnecessary force or drawing too much attention to ourselves, so that means we actually have to _socialize_ and _network_.” Evelyn sucked in a trying breath, already wishing for the night to end. Maker, she _hated_ parties. “Okay,” she said after a moment, “let’s…split up and try to find Montilyet, then regroup by the entrance to the hedge maze in an hour.”

"I…do not believe it wise to separate so early in the evening. We are in uncharted territory, _Lady Amell_ ,” Cassandra stressed the name, enough for any lingering ears to hear clearly. “Who knows what sort of danger awaits us here?"

"It’s a gala, Cassandra. What harm comes from charity and pantsuits?”

“It is not _just_ a gala, it is an _Orlesian_ gala. Orlais is the playing field for the Grand Game; there are no shortage of spies amongst the servants, or even amongst the crowd, and we are here, _unarmed_.”

“We’ll be able to find Montilyet quicker if we split up,” Evelyn reasoned. “Besides, the Prince is here and so is his personal guard. They have this place under lock and key. Nothing dangerous could possibly come from tonight.”

“Fine,” Cassandra acquiesced, “but, just be careful.”

“You, too.”

Evelyn picked a flute off the tray of a passing servant. The glass was icy in her fingers, enough to soothe the burn in her skin. She took a sip of the bubbling champagne and scanned the crowd over the rim of her glass. She could see the whole room from where she was, on the edges of the ballroom pressed with her back against the wall.

The spread before her was a sight that she was familiar with, a rally of utmost class and importance that she’d been raised in, but it brought no sort of comfort to her being. It brought dread instead, as she quickly realized how Orlesians and Antivans were two sides to the same coin, a coin she hadn’t much opportunity to hold on to.

Orlesians were snobby, overbearing and full of themselves, meanwhile, Antivans were a bit more passive-aggressive, subtle in their judgement. Yet, there was no entire difference between them; they were both in love with the idea of being perfect model images, their minds ingrained with a sense of superiority and entitlement.

She saw it in quick glances and tittering behind fans, fingers pointed in subtlety; she saw it in sneers across the room and upturned noses, curses hissed between smiling lips; she saw it in their segregation, the clear divide in the room between Orlais and Antiva. It reeked of arrogance and pride, something she _wasn’t_ quite familiar with.

Marchers were just as opportunistic, but they were a bit more forgiving in their courts, she’d have to give them that.

Evelyn found her eyes straying to one corner of the room, where a group of Orlesian nobles intermingled. They all looked ordinary in their masks and pompous displays, a blend of colors and satin and silk. That season’s trend was of feathered hats and beaked masks, apparently, but she had no care for the pleasantries of fashion.

Her gaze was about to flee again, finding nothing worth noting, but she paused, for there seemed to be a part in the masses, a sudden break in the crowd.

A woman in the heap of it all, sticking out like the sight of a sore, but _oh_ , such a sight for sore eyes, she was.

Evelyn was immediately captivated by her _charm_. Her charm, which was prevalent in the way she smiled and hid behind a dainty gloved hand. Prevalent, in the way she held her champagne flute and kept her drink steady even as she laughed. Prevalent, in the way she tilted her head, fascinated at the words spoken from the ones before her, and prevalent, even in the way she promptly excused herself from the conversation and slipped away.

Evelyn just couldn’t help herself; her gaze followed the woman like a predator to its prey. She held a grace in her movements, delicate and refined akin to the prancing of a deer, her chin held high and confident. She stopped by the refreshments table, and without the mass of the group taking away from her distinction, Evelyn could regard her in all her glory.

She was the epitome of beauty, sculpted out of clay and baked in the fire of life, smoothed by the hands of the Maker himself. Her dress was expensively tailored, long and ruffled and the color of daffodils in the spring. Dark folds of silk, black as a starless night sky, cascaded over her shoulders and down her back from a neat yellow ribbon.

She stood out from the crowd just by the way she carried herself, moving fluidly through both sides of the room without interference, but there was something else about her that Evelyn couldn’t quite make out. A familiarity, a sort of draw. An unexplainable urge to be closer to her, to be near her.

Who was _She?_

The woman looked up and Evelyn’s eyes met hers, and for a moment, time paused. This woman, a flower blooming in a dark room, gave Evelyn a sense of déjà vu, like she’d been there before, like she’d seen _Her_ before, and she knew in an instant that this was _Her_ , that this was who she was _meant_ to see. Evelyn didn’t know who _She_ was just yet, but in a room full of others, _She_ was the only one she could see.

The woman was a pretty picture that was soft in almost every aspect, hung from the walls of an exhibition that she’d yet to attend. She was quickly becoming the only thing Evelyn would ever _want_ to see, a priceless work of art that she wouldn’t mind staring at for the rest of her life. But while the strokes of her arms and her legs and her neck were smooth and soft, carefully curated with care, her eyes were _not._

Oh, they were _dangerous_. Sharp. Unforgiving. Cold. They were reminiscent of the tumultuous waves of the depthless sea, the color of sea foam green with the reflection of the sun, and they pulled Evelyn under and took the very breath from her lungs.

She was breathless, drowning in her gaze, but what a _beautiful_ death that would be.

The woman parted through the crowd before Evelyn knew it. She was paralyzed, rooted in her spot like her feet had suddenly become stones. A willing victim to the sea, a sacrifice for all that was holy, Evelyn could feel herself slowly sinking and sinking and sinking the closer she got; closer, until she was finally in front of her, until Evelyn could pick up the heady, though calming and mellow scent of her being, and see the freckles that spread across her nose and cheeks like mountains on a map.

Maker, she was even _more_ beautiful up close. Almost painfully so, as if she were shattered pieces of stained glass from the floors of a Chantry. This woman, whoever she was, Evelyn would gladly bleed on her hands and knees for her.

“Good evening,” she greeted, and it was as if breaking through the surface of the waves, her voice ringing clear; sickeningly smooth, like warm honey spilling from her lips. How was her _voice_ pretty as well? It was like a song Evelyn had yet to hear in full, but it was quickly becoming her favorite tune. "Would you care for a drink?”

Too caught up in her eyes, it seemed to not have dawned on Evelyn that the woman was talking to her until the second glass in the woman’s hand was lifted in offering. "Oh,” Evelyn blinked, “oh, yes, thank you.” Evelyn now held two glasses: one in each hand. In an awkward spell, she knocked them both back, one after the other, and set the empty flutes on the table nearby.

_A bit of liquid courage never hurt, right?_

The woman’s lips twitched into a diplomatic smile. “I apologize for being so forward.” She curtsied and bowed her head, looking up from underneath long lashes. “I couldn’t help but to notice that I have yet to make your acquaintance. I am Josephine Montilyet.”

 _Josephine._ The name rolled right off the tongue. _Crisp,_ like a cold glass of water on a sunny afternoon, _fresh_ , like a field of flowers in full bloom. _Josephine Montilyet._ A pretty name for a pretty woman.

Ah.

But.

_Dammit._

Evelyn seemed to have gathered _most_ of her senses then. She flashed a smile and bowed slightly, hoping her voice would carry strong. “A pleasure to make your acquaintance, Lady Josephine Montilyet. You may call me Evelyn.” Evelyn held her hand out for Josephine to shake, and once her soft warmth was in her palm, she held it there and gave a firm squeeze.

Montilyet.

The mark.

_How unfortunately fortunate._

“I do not believe I’ve seen you here before, Lady Evelyn. I’d recognize your face had I come across it,” Josephine mused, her lips pursed just the slightest bit in thought. They were glossy and the color of a deep pink, sparkling like a fine glass of Rosé, and Evelyn couldn’t help but to wonder if they tasted just as sweet. It was a _highly_ inappropriate thought.

 _Gather your wits. You’ve done this before. Play coy,_ came the chastising voice in her mind, sounding too much like Isabela. Evelyn opted for a coquettish grin, one that she hoped seemed confident and inviting, though she felt no such emotions herself. _Just breathe,_ came another voice, Maxwell’s gentler tone clashing with Isabela’s.

Evelyn was no stranger to flirting shamelessly to get where she needed; nights spent with a well-placed hand, an ingenuine laugh, and a twirl of her hair to get the slip at some information; so, it shouldn’t have been too difficult of a play to recreate, but _Maker_ , Josephine was…she was something else, and Evelyn was undeniably taken by her beauty.

Evelyn didn’t know whether to back away to a safe distance or push in full speed. She was so damn _nervous_ all of a sudden, and though Evelyn wouldn’t describe herself as overly bold or cocky, it wasn’t so often that a _target_ of hers could crumble her to her knees.

“Is this…some form of flattery, my Lady?”

“More-so a form of intrigue,” Josephine corrected kindly. “I move through circles in both Orlais and Antiva, but I do not believe you are from either one of them. If I may ask, what was it that brought you here to Val Royeaux?”

“I am a second cousin to the Champion of Kirkwall, with my relation established through House Amell,” Evelyn recalled dubiously, just barely remembering Varric’s established background. “My cousin was sent an invitation, but she sent me in her stead seeing as her schedule remains busy these days.”

Josephine hummed. Whether she was convinced or not, Evelyn couldn’t tell. “I see. I understand that Val Royeaux can be quite overwhelming. The parties here are far more taxing than the ones in the Free Marches. Would you say that you are enjoying yourself?”

“I…don’t think I have the capacity to formulate an opinion at the moment. I only just got here.” Evelyn knew she had to get Josephine alone, away from prying eyes and ears, but the thought of that made her skin crawl in more ways than one. She had to focus. Think. _Get a hold of yourself_ , came Isabela’s voice. “But I do find more enjoyment away from all of…this,” Evelyn gestured towards the ballroom.

“Yes, the Comte is quite the host. One should expect nothing but the most excess from him.”

“Would you,” Evelyn began, hands fleeing behind her back, “care to slip away with me to the gardens? We could have a more relaxed discussion there, if you’d like.”

Josephine’s eyes flickered in the candlelight, curiously. An emotion had passed through them, but just as quick as it had come, it had gone away. “I would love to take to the gardens,” she said, “but before I let you take me away, could I ask if you would like to share a dance? They’ve just started playing my favorite tune, and I have yet to step foot on the dance floor.”

“Oh.” Evelyn felt a sudden chill, as if cold ocean waves were lapping at her feet. “I’m sorry, I…don’t dance.”

Josephine tilted her head. “Nonsense. One does not come to a gala and expect not to dance!”

“I’m not very good at dancing,” she tried again.

“Well, surely, you must not be so terrible.”

Evelyn felt a twitch in her expression. “I’m…not familiar with the steps of these Orlesian dances, but, if you’d like to waltz with me, my Lady, then by all means we can waltz,” she managed to say with little bite.

“A waltz would be just fine.”

Evelyn, with a defeated slump of her shoulders, led them to the dance floor. They procured an empty spot near the outer ring, and Evelyn proceeded to place her palm at Josephine’s waist and folded the other over Josephine’s hand, keeping a larger than appropriate space between them.

Autonomously, the Antivan took a step forward, and the crutch Evelyn aimed to lean on was pulled right from underneath her. Evelyn’s breath hitched in her throat, the scent of Josephine’s sweet undertones clouding her head like smoke. Was that lavender and chamomile? It seemed too much to try to find out; short breaths slipped in and out from her chest instead, but each one taken seemed to make her head spin faster.

Their proximity was more distracting than she’d like to admit. With hard concentration, Evelyn tried to focus on the musical quartet instead of the whirlwind of bodies surrounding her and the feel of Josephine under her hands. When the tempo of the song had been established and the beats counted, Evelyn stepped into the lead, Josephine following with practiced ease.

She repeated the reminder of a simple box step in her mind: _one_ -two-three, _one_ -two-three, but she was rusty and stiff to the bone, clunky and much too out of practice to even be dancing in the first place. Josephine’s grace carried on into their sway, and Evelyn couldn’t help but to feel so small despite her few inches on the Antivan.

If her mother could see her now, she’d faint at such transgression. Evelyn’s cheeks were surly warm in embarrassment, her palms almost as sweaty as she was nervous. Josephine didn’t seem to mind it, though, and if she did, she hid it well. Evelyn could feel her studying her face, and self-consciously, she tightened her jaw.

“So,” Josephine began after a moment’s silence, “Tales of the Champion have reached as far as Antiva. You must be very proud of your relative.”

Oh, good. A distraction. Hawke. She could _easily_ talk about Hawke. Evelyn still refused to meet Josephine’s eyes, however, instead grazing the ballroom for Cassandra’s familiar presence. Eventually, she spotted her Quartermaster with her black dress and golden curlicues. Her amber eyes regarded Evelyn, a silent question asked, and Evelyn nodded discreetly.

“I am. Would I be correct to assume you’ve read the latest installments?”

“Who hasn’t? It is an epic series of heroic conquest and romance. The Champion rose from nothing, only to become the savior of the city and the most loved public figure by all.”

Evelyn had to stop herself from laughing. If only it were just as it was in the books. “Half of it was dramatized. In fact, the true story is much simpler, but simplicity doesn’t sell as well as theatrics.”

“Well, it is still a bold and beautifully written story, wouldn’t you agree? An excellent source for others to look to for inspiration, if I may say so.”

“I wouldn’t say it’s a beautiful story, or, one that many should turn to for inspiration.” Evelyn’s eyes darted to Josephine’s for just a moment, her heart picking up in speed with the tempo of the violins. “The true story is actually…very dark. And bloody. Varric Tethras left out a lot of the messier details to seem less of a pessimist, and get more sales.”

Josephine hummed in consideration as she spun under Evelyn’s arm. “I sense you have some insider knowledge on his work.”

“I do.” _Yes._ This is how she gets her. Evelyn’s hand found themselves back on Josephine’s waist, daring to pull her in deeper. It was her first opening of the night, and Evelyn jumped at such an opportune moment. “Would you like to trade some information?”

“That depends on the quality of your information and whether I have any information of my own worthy of your ears.”

“I’m sure you have _something_.” Evelyn dug through her mind, recalling memories that might’ve been appropriate enough to share, yet also engaging enough to keep Josephine’s attention. “Well,” she mused, “have you read about the story of the Pirate Queen’s ship?” Josephine nodded. “The way the Champion obtained the ship wasn’t from exchanging the incriminating documents with the Captain in an honorable trade. Rather, the Champion and the Pirate Queen staged an ambush and murdered the Captain instead. There was a slaughter in one of the foundries with over fifteen casualties. With the Captain dead, the Pirate Queen was able to seize control of his ship and rise back up to her level of infamy.”

“Oh, I see. Dark and bloodier indeed,” Josephine said, eyes wide. “I can see to understand why the truth of the story was left out. I’m sure the publishers agreed to spare the younger audience of malignant themes and gory details.”

“It would’ve proved incriminating as well. There were some legal issues that followed. The owner of the foundry wasn’t happy to find so many bodies the next morning.”

“You speak as if you were personally there, Lady Evelyn,” Josephine’s voice tilted, that gleam in her eyes from earlier returning. “How distant did you say you were from the Champion, again?”

It sounded like a sudden accusation, one that made Evelyn miss a step, but Josephine was quick to follow up as if nothing had happened, her expression stoic as it had been. “Quite,” she said, clearing her throat. “We weren’t raised together and have only just gotten close in recent years. But she is my cousin, so of course I would know the truth of the story that surrounds her. I’d hate to spill all her secrets, however, without gaining any secrets for myself.”

“That is correct, we did agree upon exchanging information. Well, Lady Evelyn, I suppose your contribution is worthy enough. What would you like to know?”

“Being from a noble Antivan house,” Evelyn said, head lowering slightly to her cheek. She could almost feel Josephine’s breath on the tip of her exposed ear, a bout of movement that sent shivers down her spine. “I expect you are partaking in the auction?”

“Indeed. House Montilyet is no stranger to such charitable acts of kindness. It is my duty as a citizen of Antiva to represent Prince Azrin in good faith, as well as uphold the distinction of my family name.”

It sounded practiced, automatic, almost _mechanical_ ; words and phrases spat out with no thought put behind them. Evelyn pushed through them, however, her skin prickling with anticipation. “I’ve heard rumors you are in possession of an ancient relic, tonight. A dagger named Aurora’s Freedom.”

“You know of the relic? You surely must know the story behind it as well, then.”

“I don’t. Is it important?”

“I would say so. It is a tale of betrayal and retribution, far more interesting than the dagger itself. If you like, I could tell you the story. Free of any obligation, of course.”

“Well, I’d love to hear it, then,” she found herself saying. “Free of any obligation.”

“Aurora was a woman of Alamarri descent who lived in Minrathous at the height of the Imperium glory,” Josephine began, her voice taking on an engaging story-teller tone. “She was born into slavery and bought by a powerful mage who became enchanted with her beauty and intelligence. The two eventually fell in love; the mage promised to free Aurora and marry her once he had earned a seat on the Magisterium. Aurora waited years for her mage, bowing to his every whim, but when he finally attained his coveted position, he broke his promise to Aurora and married a fellow altus magister.”

Evelyn cocked a brow. Another spin under her arm. “Where does the dagger come into play?”

“You see, Aurora was given to the mage's bride as a gift, required to serve as her handmaid at the wedding. Heartbroken, Aurora resolved to take her life that night. The head of the mage's personal guard had watched their story unfold; her sympathies lay with Aurora, not the master she served. She convinced Aurora that it was the cruel, deceitful mage who deserved death and gave her a dagger that had been enchanted to addle the mind, making spellcasting impossible. Aurora killed the mage and his new wife as they slept, taking her revenge and her freedom in one night.”

Evelyn hadn’t realized the story was over until Josephine stopped talking. She hadn’t realized they had stopped crossing the dance floor either, instead left in each other’s lingering graces. She blinked once, then twice, the words of Josephine’s story playing over in her mind again. “I…didn’t know that.”

“Not many know the history of ancient relics, instead falling short for the appeal of them,” Josephine said, taking a step back. Evelyn sniffed, feeling too exposed at the sudden loss of warmth. Her arms felt heavy at her sides. “It is quite upsetting, really. History is such an important part of our society. It lays the framework for our humanity, helping us better understand what it means to be a part of this world. I wish there was less focus on the materialistic things, and more on the importance of knowledge and other values.”

Evelyn felt a twist in her gut at those words. She spoke as if Evelyn was any different, but Josephine would soon know how similar Evelyn was to the rest of the world, and what a bitter thought _that_ was.

Evelyn had to return to reality. She pushed the scent of lavender and chamomile out of her mind, the meaningless words of the story away, and instead tried to focus on what she had come there for: her _job_. Josephine was not some passing fancy. She was a _pawn_ , an object for Evelyn to use and readily give up in order to further her own selfish agenda.

Josephine was the prettiest woman she’d ever lay eyes on, but she was just another face in the crowd. She held no other importance than what was in her hands: the dagger, which Evelyn still had yet to find. She had come to the gala for that dagger. Nothing more, nothing less.

“You must really care for this relic,” Evelyn noted. “I’m curious to know, is it here with you like the rumors have been told?”

Josephine squared her shoulders, leaning back slightly. The corner of her lips twisted. “I-”

**“- _AHHH! The Prince!_ ”**

A shrill screech cut through the air suddenly, like a sharp point being dragged across a metal surface. Evelyn turned her head and unconsciously pulled Josephine closer at the sight of the cause for the scream. Prince Azrin was stood at the top of the stairs for everyone in attendance to see, a symbol of the good faith of Antiva, but there was something horrifyingly wrong with the picture, now.

A puff of black smoke had appeared before him, and once cleared, the blade of a dagger had wedged itself into his flesh. His ivory tailored suit was ruined; defiled, stained with red, that continued to expand out from the edges of the blade, like a glass full of wine had tipped over a tablecloth.

Prince Azrin’s expression curled: eyes, lips, nose, in pain. He clutched at the handle sticking from his abdomen and staggered forward, like he’d suddenly forgotten how to stand, and down the staircase he tumbled, rolling belly-up right at the fringe of the dancefloor, right at Evelyn and Josephine’s feet.

Evelyn’s lips parted, stunned, watching as the very light in the Prince’s eyes was snuffed out, as quick as a breath across an open flame. “ _Shit_ ,” she cursed.

“Oh, _Maker_ ,” Josephine whispered at the same time, the tightening of her fingers around Evelyn’s forearm enough to keep them both tethered.

For the briefest moment, time seemed to pause. There was a silence in the room that fell over the crowd, a clench in everyone’s chest as they held their breaths.

Then, the ringing of bells.

“ _Il principe!_ ” Somebody had screamed. “Get help! Guards, block all of the exits! Find the _assassino!_ ”

With the onset of a stampede, all sense had returned to Evelyn. The guards began to storm the ballroom, pushing and shoving people out of the way, cutting through the crowd to reach the Prince. Evelyn pulled Josephine away from the flow of the horde, out of the course of nobles jumping on each other to gather a look.

She took them far from the chaos, rushing them through a side door and down a long corridor, until they could turn into a corner to hide. Once sure no one had followed them in, Evelyn turned to Josephine. She placed her hands on the Antivan’s shoulders and leveled to her gaze, heart forcing its way up her closed throat.

“Where are the items for the auction being held?”

For a second, Josephine seemed to exist outside of the physical plane. She blinked, barely keeping her eyes focused. She was still in shock. “I-I’m sorry?”

“The things for the auction, the dagger, where is it?” Evelyn urged. She could hear the guards getting closer with every passing second. She had to get out of there and find Cassandra, but first, this _Maker-forsaken_ _blade_.

Josephine’s brows pulled together. She cautiously took a step backward, Evelyn’s hands slipping off her shoulders. “You have been lying to me, haven’t you? Who are you?”

“It doesn’t matter.” Evelyn stole another glance around the corner, the sound of doors being kicked down echoing from somewhere else in the wing. “Look, I don’t have time for this. Just tell me where the dagger is so I can leave.”

“The dagger isn’t here.” Evelyn snapped her gaze back at Josephine, surprised. Her voice was biting and uncomfortably monotone. It wasn’t a voice that seemed to belong to her; it was much too flat and almost bitter. It didn’t suit the beautiful Antivan at all.

“It’s not here?” Evelyn echoed in disbelief.

“The dagger was purchased prior to the auction. The Montilyet’s were offering in its stead, a pair of Orlesian heels worn by the Empress Celene herself.”

“A pair of _heels?_ You’ve got to be fucking-” Evelyn paused, closing her eyes and taking a deep breath to calm her nerves. She wanted to _scream_. “Who? Who made the purchase?”

“My betrothed, Lord Adorno Ciel Otranto.” At those words, Evelyn felt a clench in her chest, like a weight had dropped from her chest and into the pit of her belly. She hadn’t expected that, then again, was she expecting something? “And before you ask, he is absent from Orlais at the moment. I apologize for the inconvenience, _my Lady_.”

Something snapped in Evelyn then. All this time, she played into the role, getting dressed up and pretending she was someone important, and for what? She got nothing that she came for. It just went to show that no matter what, something terrible always happened on these jobs, and maybe she truly was damned, because disarray seemed to follow her everywhere she went.

“Don’t call me that,” Evelyn warned. She was not a Lady, not anymore, and she did not associate herself with such pleasantries. They were above her now, and Josephine’s mockery was a clear display of that. “I need to get the dagger. Tell me where your betrothed is.”

“Away for business, but I am expecting him to arrive sometime soon.”

“How soon are we talking?”

Before Josephine could respond, the corridor had been invaded. Evelyn cursed. She had no time left. Glancing around for a quick escape, she opted for the one of many balconies that were found all over the mansion. “Never mind that, expect to see me again soon. Have a good evening, Lady Josephine,” Evelyn said, mock bowing to the Antivan.

Evelyn turned and kicked off her heels, clearing the railing and landing safely in the bushes below. She brushed off the thistles of the bush and escaped into the dark of the night, her heart pounding in her ears. Curses were mumbled under her breath, at the Prince, at Josephine, at Isabela, even at the Maker himself. She didn’t stop running until she reached the hedge maze.

Evelyn yanked her hair free from its constraints, ruffling her waves out and providing relief to her skull. She paced back and forth. The ring turned in her fingers.

This was _not_ how the night was supposed to go. She was supposed to get in, find the dagger, and get out. A very simple, easy job. And yet, everything that could've possibly gone wrong had occurred. Maker, why was it that she believed Isabela _every_ time?

"Captain!" Came a shout.

Evelyn didn't look up. "The dagger isn't here."

"What?” Cassandra hissed. “What do you mean it isn’t here? The Admiral said it would be. Was her intelligence off again?"

"No. Not exactly. It was supposed to be here but changed course last minute. Lady Josephine Montilyet's betrothed took it off her hands. It's with him."

"Then let us go to him. Do you know where he is located?”

"No, I don’t. But he’s coming here soon, I just don’t know when either.” Evelyn paused to sigh, running her fingers through her hair. She heard the alarm of voices ring through the air, growing closer by the second. “I’m going to have to come back for Lady Josephine later, but for now, we need to leave. We can’t get caught here.”

“There should be a back passage somewhere around here, where we can get away and escape undetected.”

“Okay. Good. Let’s get going, then,” Evelyn ordered with a tilt of her head.

While Cassandra plowed ahead, Evelyn stole one last glance at the silhouette of the woman in the balcony. She could almost see her face, a pretty picture in her mind.

_Such a damn shame._

Evelyn huffed. She turned and slipped after Cassandra’s shadow, mind still fresh with the sight of Josephine Montilyet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have a habit of only being able to write when its 3 in the morning and I'm on the border of passing out for some reason. I went through to edit a few things but again, at 3 in the morning, so I can't say that everything is in shipshape, as Isabela would say lolol.
> 
> Anyways, Evie has some trauma that she carries with her from her childhood and that we will get into later on. I'm sort of exploring PTSD and related symptoms, anxiety and dissociation which we saw a tiny bit of here, and I'm trying to do my research on each disorder to be able to safely and accurately portray them in my writing, but I'm not sure if I'm doing a-okay or if that alone is even a-okay.
> 
> If I'm doing a terrible job or if I'm being insensitive/ignorant at all, pls let me know so I can stop.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> > _How can we know you?  
>  In the turning of the seasons, in life or death,  
>  In the empty space where our hearts  
>  Hunger for a forgotten face?  
>    
>  **-Trials 1:4**_  
> 

[Josephine Cherette Montilyet](https://www.flickr.com/photos/190990052@N03/50588432248/in/photostream/)

It was quite apparent that this mystery woman was more than what she let herself to be. 

She was not Orlesian, and she could not have been from Antiva, else Josephine would’ve known of her presence immediately. A handful of those in attendance were a few trade partners of the Comte indeed from the Free Marches, and there were one or two Ferelden nobles in attendance that frequented his soirees, but all that were worthy of an introduction had long been introduced to Josephine.

Yet, this woman seemed to have slipped from underneath Josephine’s nose, a nose that she liked to say had the natural tendency to sniff out characters of intriguing qualities. And this one was _most_ intriguing.

Lady Evelyn of House Amell.

Her name was not one Josephine could ever recall hearing, even with House Amell becoming the leading topic for gossip over the years. Their household name only began recirculating when the Fifth Blight in Ferelden had come to an end. One Solona Amell had risen from the ashes of her fallen House and raised an army against the Darkspawn, miraculously ending the Blight before it could even cross the waters.

 _Ah,_ if the Tales of the Champion were so fascinating, the stories of the Hero of Ferelden made the Tales pale in comparison. But that was...something to dwell on for _another_ time. 

If Josephine could remember, the Warden-Commander had four other siblings that were sent to different Circles all over Thedas, so Lady Evelyn could not have been one of them. Though, that wouldn’t have been a preferred introduction: an apostate mage who was closely related to the Hero of Ferelden. Introduced as the Champion of Kirkwall’s cousin seemed a _bit_ more conventional. 

But perhaps she was the daughter of the other Amell? Lady Revka Amell _did_ have a brother, one that many often chose to forget. Damion Amell: currently imprisoned in a Tantervale facility on the charge of lyrium smuggling, a charge that completely exhausted House Amell’s vaults with the failed attempt of exoneration.

It may have been an ill-mannered thought, but Josephine deemed it the one that made the most sense. She had her suspicions that Lady Evelyn was...well, _not_ _quite_ the Lady as Josephine was. From even before the moment Lady Evelyn opened her mouth to speak, Josephine knew she was entirely out of her element.

She hid in the shadows like a lonesome wallflower, but Josephine’s impulsive decision to approach her drew her out into the light, with much pleasure on Josephine’s part. She looked as if she’d been caught with her pants down, a rather endearing sight (Josephine always had an appreciation for those shy little flowers that flourished further south of Antiva).

When it came to it, she was just _terrible_ at dancing. It was almost as if she’d never learned a step in the entirety of her life. If the ballroom were a battlefield, there would've been no hope for her to make it out to the other end, what with her apparent two left feet (Josephine, truly speaking, should've been the one to lead).

Her style of dress spoke of someone wanting to stay lowkey; not at all grandiose and shiny, and lacking in the boldness that the Royans exhibited, but that alone was enough to make her an easy target to pick out from the crowd (not...that Josephine approached her with the intention of playing a game, or, rather _the_ Game).

Josephine’s curiosity was merely just that: she wished to know who this mystery woman was, and why she felt so inclined to approach a stranger who, realistically, should've been the last person on Josephine’s long list of potential entertainment. Lady Evelyn being in between the Hero and the Champion was a revelation that was neither here nor there, because it was something else entirely that drew Josephine in. 

There was a part of her that she could not deny; a draw of the strongest kind, tugging at her heart, at her very soul, into the space between them. And Josephine could not make sense of anything but the feeling that she had to be there, in her mystery woman’s shaky hands and warm arms; like their meeting was meant to be; like she belonged there; and _oh,_ it was _such_ a silly thought.

Still, Josephine entertained her mystery woman of the night, keeping her distracted with harmless conversation and telling tales, and, as Josephine found herself dragging on their meager waltz, perhaps keeping her away from those with less than honorable intentions. 

Lady Evelyn was clearly different from the rest. She was a novelty, exuding an aura of curiosity, an almost _innocence_ , that Josephine hadn’t seen in the Court in so long. It was this thought that Josephine clung to, this reasoning in her logical mind that told her why she stayed, preferring it over that fictional fairy-tale theme of fatedness.

If anyone else were to have reached Evelyn before Josephine did, she’d surely not survive the night. Orlais was a deathpool of starved sharks, always desperate for a taste, a _single drop_ , of fresh blood. Every word, every gesture, every facial expression, was measured and evaluated for strengths and weaknesses by those in the Court, and Lady Evelyn was quite literally an open book. 

The Court would not have been merciful. Josephine had decided immediately that she was doing Lady Evelyn a favor. Multiple, even, considering that Lady Evelyn was so clearly invested in what House Montilyet had donated to the charity auction. A shot at a better bargain, perhaps, and a better bargain she was given. 

With Josephine at her side, she would’ve been safe. She would’ve been seen with an esteemed member of the Court. A respectable one, at that; one who held enough power, however small that amount was, to say, _back off, this one is mine_ . It was less possession, more establishing a boundary to the Court that _Josephine_ would be the one to... _deal_ with her, for lack of a better word.

Josephine may not have been intent on playing _the_ Game, but a game still she played with her mystery woman. She’d thought of tactics to stretch their time together deeper into the night, coming up with ways to redirect the conversation away from the relic. A sort of cat-and-mouse chase; Josephine kept her pursuing, but just when she’d thought she’d have her, Josephine would evade capture at the last moment.

It was harmless fun, and it was something to pass the time; time that, as the more Josephine twirled under her mystery woman’s arm, she rather enjoyed. She managed to pin who Lady Evelyn Amell was: a woman way in over her head, not at all skilled in the art of subterfuge, ignorant to the rules of the Court.

Too clumsy; uncoordinated; _utterly charming,_ for what she was worth. Before they could get too far into their game, however, it ended so abruptly and tragically in a way that Josephine could not have expected.

Lady Evelyn had the advantage of the ball in her court, then, balancing out the debt of her own favors as she whisked Josephine away from the wreckage that was the gala to safety. And just when Josephine thought she'd had her mystery woman figured out, Lady Evelyn Amell (if that was truly her name) jumped from the third floor balcony and took with her, all of Josephine’s understanding of who she was. 

Josephine had less knowledge of her mystery woman than what she'd been given before, and she was wholly befuddled.

The guards had reached her much too late. An ensemble of six, with plate armor and swords drawn at the ready, pointed their sharp ends in Josephine’s direction, as if she were hiding some deathly weapon beneath her skirts. “You, there! What is your name?”

Josephine was left winded and her mind muddled, like a rug had been pulled right from underneath her feet by the very same person meant to catch her. She had little sense left to calmly lift her hands and explain herself, but the surrounding threat was enough incentive. “I am Lady Josephine of House Montilyet, a revered guest of Comte Audric Boisvert.” Her words carried strong, though her voice nearly gave way, cracking around the edges as her throat closed in itself. “It would behoove you to lower your weapons. I am no threat, as you can see.”

The guards still didn’t move. “Who was it that was just with you?”

Josephine glanced out from the doors of the balcony, haphazardly swaying in the summer breeze. Just barely, she could catch a shadow escaping into the hedge maze of the Comte’s garden. Agile and quick, with a frame that was sturdy and hard, a demonstration that said this- making quick escapes from third story balconies- was nothing new. 

“I do not know who it was.” It wasn’t an exact lie. Josephine was not confident in her abilities to say this Lady Evelyn Amell was as she made herself to be. “They escaped before I had the chance to get a good look at them.” Now, _that_ was a lie. She hadn't meant to, but the words left Josephine’s lips before she could stop them, her thoughts still trying to arrange themselves into reason.

Unsurprisingly, the guards were none too pleased to hear such news. A bit rougher than was necessary, Josephine was dragged by the arm and escorted to the entrance hall, where all the other nobles in attendance had been herded. 

Guards were posted at every entrance to the vestibule, pushing inward and moving all one way. It seemed that nobody would be leaving just yet. The crowd was growing restless, pulling Comte Boisvert by one arm in one direction, whilst the poor man was holding off Prince Azrin’s assembly with his other in the opposite direction.

It was a _mess._ Not surprising, considering that everyone was being held against their will and privately accused. There was so much moving around, so many words spat into the atmosphere, and yet, Josephine, for the first time in a long time, felt no such peace in the familiar chaos. She stood in the eye of the storm, feeling quite lost and alone in a room full of others, unsure of what exactly she should’ve been doing but feeling she had to do _something._

“Lady Josephine!” A familiar voice called over the volume of the crowd. Josephine traced the voice to Alesso, who waved her down and threw a tentative smile her way. She’d nearly forgotten about him, caught up in emerald green eyes and the scent of Antivan harbors, but she let out a breath of relief anyways at the appearance of something familiar that she could latch onto. “I see that you survived the sudden mass panic,” he settled once he’d reached her. 

His easy smile seemed strained this time, not quite as full as it could be. Still, Josephine felt the tension in her shoulders loosen, her defenses not as high as they were with another by her side. “I am glad to see you unharmed as well. There was quite a bit of mayhem that erupted following this...unfortunate turn of events. Has anyone else been injured?”

“No. I believe it was just the Prince that was in- _ah_ -” an abrupt noise came from Alesso’s throat as he reconsidered, “- _we-ll,_ ” he thoughtfully drawled, “to say he was _injured_ would imply that he survived the attack, but from how the Prince was carted away very nearly wrapped in ceremonial cloth...” Alesso pressed his lips together and cleared his throat, straightening the lapels of his coat. “Did...you see what happened?”

Josephine had very much seen what happened; practically everyone in attendance had. The heavy mist that seemed to appear out of nowhere, the twist of black steel into ivory gold, the great fall from grace and the cataclysmic tumble to the bottom. 

She saw what happened.

She stared into those lifeless eyes and watched as the poster-child of Antiva bled out right before her. 

Once, he was something, and the next, he was nothing.

And there. That was what it was. That poison that paralyzed her.

In that moment, watching her Prince go back to the glory of his Maker, conjured a shadow in her mind, a face long forgotten. The Prince reminded her of _Him_ , in that moment, bringing _Him_ back from the grave in which he’d been buried, back to the living to haunt her.

_Him._

She’d watched in horrification as He rolled over each step, winced with every unnatural bend and snap of His limbs, and heard the terrible crack of His head when it collided with waxed marble floors.

_Her first kill._

Josephine wrapped her arms around one another and shut her eyes, as if that would clear the image from her mind and keep her safe from it, but the scene replayed itself there in the darkness of her vision. Fair hair and ivory bled into chestnut brown and wine. 

_Her last kill._

_He_ died just the same. Just as the Prince. 

_Her only kill._

“Yes.” For such a short, simple word, it seemed to take all her breath to utter it. “I- I saw most of it.” And it would become another memory to terrorize her nights.

“You were very near to where he fell.” Alesso had raised a hand and placed it on her shoulder, his thumb pressing gently into her flesh. Josephine flinched just the slightest bit, having to fight the urge to pull away so abruptly. His voice was disturbingly somber when he spoke, only unsettling her more than she already was. “It is not often you see a dead body at your feet. Tell me, how are you feeling? And let me remind you, I can tell when a person is lying.”

“I…” Josephine couldn't quite find the words that matched to what it was she was feeling. It was so much emotion and yet none of it at all; it was confusion and fear and anger all mixed together, but it was muted, almost numbed completely from the exhaustion that settled into her bones. She felt heavy and as if her knees would collapse right from under her, her usual sharp wit dulled and that burst of energy she'd earlier felt left on the fringe of the dance floor.

Josephine needed to step away, to simply process what had happened, but Alesso was waiting and there were too many eyes and ears around them and while many were mourning as well, Josephine was too used to straightening her spine and lifting her chin in the face of adversity that she could not allow herself a moment to pause.

“I could not have anticipated the night to go this way.” Josephine shook her head, shook off the ghost of her past, before finally prying her eyes open and meeting Alesso’s concern. “We were set to believe that the Prince would be safe, that _we_ would be safe, with all the careful security measures in place and the additional guards surrounding the estate. I do not understand _how_ it was possible that the assassin was able to infiltrate the gala and- and just _take_ him so publicly!”

Alesso’s hand had finally left her shoulder. He raked fingers through his oiled curls, unsure of what else to do with his hand than let it hang on his side. “Assassins are skilled in what they do, my Lady, they kill with their head, not their hands. And, it should be no surprise to us that the blades of the Antivan and Orlesian delegates are far sharper than their minds.” It was clear he was just as uncomfortable with this as she was, but it was hard to tell whether it was with the given circumstances or with the weight of their conversation, Josephine fully aware of how thick her voice was over her words. “Have you ever sat in and listened to the two sides have a discussion? It is like watching two children argue over how to fit a square piece into a triangular mold.”

Despite the gravity of the situation, Alesso seemed to have mastered the effect of turning a bad thing into a bearable thing. Well-timed humor and distractions were good enough weapons; if executed correctly, they could loosen a person much like how empty promises and palms full of gold did. Rather than give fear power by provoking it, he used humor to disarm it completely.

An unhealthy mechanism of defense, perhaps, and not one that Josephine had the comfort of using. “I was an Ambassador to the Crown for a year-and-a-half,” she made a point to mention, “and before that, I spent about a year as an underling to the Chief Diplomat. So, to answer your question, I am quite familiar with just how daunting talks can be between Antivans and Orlesians.”

A sobering grin pulled across his face, relief in the way his shoulders slumped and his eyes sparkled. “Ah, how could I forget? You must have stories that could fill a library from your time spent here! Oh, wait a moment,” he paused to dig inside his coat, Josephine watching with a wary eye, “I have something that will pass the time, and,” he pulled out a small flask that he kept tucked close to his chest, that sparkle in his eyes turning mischievous, “it seems that we will have a lot of it before we should be dismissed. So, should we get comfortable?” 

Josephine opened her mouth to protest but chose to shut it instead. She could use the distraction, no matter how unbecoming it was. Without much of a verbal response, she reached for the flask and took a long sip. It cleansed the memory from her mind, albeit temporarily, but that was enough to simply get her through the night.

*****

Josephine and the rest of the Antivan nobles stayed behind with the ghost of the Prince in the Comte’s estate, just until their innocence could be proven and they’d be permitted to leave. The Antivan envoy and the Orlesian authorities were investigating every guest on the roster, as well as the servants and even Josephine herself. She was discouraged from leaving the grounds, and if she wished for something as a peaceful morning stroll through the gardens, it was not without several of the guards watching her every move.

So, for most of the day following the dreadful night of the Comte’s gala, Josephine lounged in her guest bedchambers. It was an uncomfortable situation for her, as well as all the others in the west wing, and perhaps the Comte as well, seeing as the man had been forced into a position where he had to suspect his very own honorable guests. It spoke of a lack of discernment in the Comte and instilled bitterness in the Antivan nobles. 

Josephine, of course, was very understanding; the death of the heir to a nation was not something that could be taken lightly, and in the home of the very man who'd invited him to stay, nonetheless. She tried her best to console the others and spread the detail that it was a difficult time for everyone and that many things were out of the Comte’s hands. At the same time, the Comte showed his remorse in the way he spared no such expense in spa treatment and food, and with full cooperation with the Antivan envoy.

The Comte was putting in effort, and though it was mostly to make himself look better rather than please the Antivan nobles, it was a well enough effort. All was forgiven posthaste.

After her morning stroll, Josephine decided to poke around the extensive library collection that the Comte possessed. It was no secret that the Comte was a collector of many things, but for one of them to be books was a mild shock. He had no family of his own, no children to tutor, and if Josephine knew the Comte from the years he worked with her father, he was not one to retire to his evening affairs with a book in hand. 

His preference was more of a nice cup of red.

To Josephine’s surprise, the room was well-kept and tidy, with ample sunlight filtering in from the floor-to-ceiling windows. It was empty, though it clearly had not been for long, as the tables were free of any obstacles, books and _dust_ included. Josephine was temporarily impressed. But, if anything, the library served more as a showroom of knowledge than a place to fraternize in. Josephine would not stay there.

She collected armfuls of history textbooks, autobiographies, and a few entertaining novels to bring back to her room, adamant on passing the time with her nose buried in a book. But, once she actually sat down and cracked open those stale spines, she found herself too caught up in her thoughts to focus. As it so often did when she had nothing else to do, in this time of leisure- a time made scarce- Josephine’s mind churned restlessly. 

There were whispers that spoke of the assassination being the work of the Antivan Crows. It was fitting, considering that those in the Orlesian court weren’t so foolish enough to attempt a public assassination. Such a thing was unheard of, and quite the scandal whether it proved successful or not. Orlesians were all for subtlety; Bards and the House of Repose did their jobs well without all the unnecessary flair.

Josephine had no doubt in her mind that the Prince’s assassination was the work of someone from back home. Only Antivans could be so _dramatic_ in their ways. But the only bit of evidence they had that could tie the murder to the House of Crows was the murder weapon itself: a single stiletto, with its long, needle-like point and tell-tale handiwork of an Antivan blacksmith. 

Perfect for stabbing, even more so for quick and concealed assassinations; the preferred modus operandi for someone who worked in the shadows. Though the Crows had yet to take claim of the Prince’s termination, it did not help that the organization of very skilled assassins had never shied from taking hits on the nobility, royalty _included._

But the big questions still remained up in the air: _who_ would have the expenses to fund such a task, one that no doubt could buy the whole of House Montilyet multiple times over? And _what_ was their reason to do so, when Prince Azrin hadn’t done so much as show up to events to shake hands and smile politely?

It was entirely impractical. The Antivan Royal Family held no such true power in the City, so for the assassination to be a plot piece that changed the line of succession was _absurd._ There had to be some other reason why the Prince was killed, but _what?_ And why at a _charitable function?_

Curiously, Josephine’s thoughts wandered over to her mystery woman of the night. Josephine, regrettably, could not deny nor accept that she had anything to do with the assassination. Josephine was with her when it had happened and her mystery woman was equally as surprised, but Josephine could not rule her out completely as being somewhat involved in _some_ inexplicable plot.

Lady Evelyn didn’t seem like she _belonged_ there, and her quick and blatant exit seemed to solidify the fact that she couldn't be _caught_ there. That alone made room for suspicion, but there were also talks amongst the guards that spoke of someone else having escaped the gala. There were conflicting reports about whether that someone had arrived on Lady Evelyn’s arm or not; whether that someone was seen lingering in the back gardens or nearby the Prince before he'd passed.

Needless to say, they had the names of their two suspects, and Josephine found herself longing to see Evelyn again, if only to properly find the answers to those lingering questions in her mind. Who was she really? And did this mystery woman, who Josephine so recklessly and foolhardy got swept up in, have something to do with the assassination?

For Josephine’s own sake, she sincerely hoped not.

“Josie, can we go do something _fun?_ ” Ida whined, her restless fingertips tapping a soft rhythm against the surface of the table.

Josephine didn’t look up from her book. She’d been stuck on the same passage for some time now, head lost in thought. “We are being held here in the Comte’s estate until tomorrow morning. There is not much we could do at all that would prove to be fun, unless you'd care to take another walk with me _and_ the guards around the gardens?”

Ida threw her hands in the air. “Ugh!” She exclaimed, making a dramatic show that Josephine only briefly looked up from her page to watch. “Surely, there’s _something_ we could do! I’m losing my mind here just watching you wade through that-” Ida tapped the cover of her novel, “- _object_ of yours.” 

“This _object,_ ” Josephine raised the cover and pointed to the title, “is clearly _The Sermons of Divine Renata the First._ Perhaps it would do you good to brush up on your literacy. There is a dictionary on the shelf that you could flip through to pacify your restiveness.” Josephine couldn’t help but smile at the offense that Ida had taken, her jaw gaping just slightly. It was in good jest, and Ida playfully swiped at her before Josephine settled back behind her book. “You should enjoy this time, Ida, away from my mother who has been nothing but an absolute _menace_ since I’ve come back home.”

“I don’t mind your mother’s craziness. She keeps me busy, and you know I’m not one meant for sitting around.” The pages before Josephine had suddenly disappeared, the book in her hand flying across the room. It was Josephine’s turn for her jaw to fall slack as she looked upon her handmaid with disapproval. Ida stared back, mirth sparkling in her eyes and revenge in her smirk. “What is Lord Ricci up to, do you think?” She leaned forward and asked. “There is no doubt in my mind that he is dabbling in some fun!”

Josephine slumped back in her seat and crossed her arms. Ida had been increasingly provocative since Josephine stumbled into the room last night, slightly tipsy with an even tipsier Alesso saying goodbye at the door. “You ask as if I am his keeper. I haven’t heard word of him since last night.” She pulled her brows together, unsure of _why_ Ida was always mentioning that foolishly impossible man. “If you are so curious about his daily endeavors, why don’t you go down the hall and knock on his door yourself?”

“Ah,” Ida teased with a lilt in her voice, “no need to be so defensive, Josie! I wouldn’t dare make a move on _your_ man.”

The growing smirk on her handmaid’s face made Josephine’s scrunch into a scowl. “ _My_ man is _Lord Adorno_ . May I remind you, I am _engaged_ and am set to be _wed_ by the end of the year?”

Ida sucked her teeth. “It’s just the two of us here, Josie, you can be honest with me.” Her voice lowered with her head, conspirically. “I know you don’t like Adorno. I’m not a fan of him, myself, if truth be told. Ugh, he is just _so_ much, you know? With his lemons and his hair and-” she shook her head, “-your mother couldn’t have found someone with less stick up his _culo?_ ”

Josephine scoffed. “Ida. _Language._ ”

“ _Wha-at?_ ” She drawled, shrugging her shoulders. “Our mothers are nowhere near to come wash our tongues out with soap! But, anyways, look. You have found more comfort in Alesso than you have with Adorno, and you have only known Alesso for a short amount of time! Why not just call the engagement off and marry _him_ instead? I’m sure he would love to.”

At the utterance of _‘engagement,’_ Josephine shut Ida’s words out. She was getting _so_ tired of hearing that word, spoken to her more times than her name had been called. The rate at which things were going, the only vows she’d be taking would be the ones lay sisters did before they swore a life to celibacy. A peaceful life amongst the Chantry was looking more appealing day by miserable day.

“Ida,” Josephine sighed, finding every reason and fault with her suggestion, “Alesso is an attractive man, and I admit, we may have some… _chemistry,_ ” she admitted, unsure of what else to call their strange comfort and familiarity with one another, “but he is much too brash-” which was putting it _lightly_ , “-and my mother would think him too short of money. Alesso is the fourth youngest of Lord Ricci and won’t inherit much in terms of valuables. He would be lucky to even be passed the title of _one_ of their investments.”

Ida groaned, her eyes rolling to the back of her head. “Always about _money,_ with you nobles! Whatever happened to simply _having fun_ and _enjoying your time_ together? Oh, and since we are on the topic of having fun and enjoying your time,” Ida snapped back to her original goal, “should I remind you that we are in _Val Royeaux?_ The city with much to do and people to do it with? People like... _Lord Alesso Ricci?_ ”

Josephine’s lips twisted. Ida was just as incorrigible as her other siblings, and equally as stubborn. She recognized a losing fight when she saw one, and she had no such energy to try to hold off for any longer. “Fine,” Josephine relented. “If you are so set on being entertained, I suppose there is no harm in going to see what it is that keeps him busy.”

Ida lit up and very nearly leaped from her seat. “ _Yes!_ Should I do your hair? Oh, and touch up on your makeup? I was not going to say this earlier, but your liner has a bit of a smudge in the corner and-”

“-It would be an unnecessary effort,” Josephine dismissed with a wave of her hand. “We are simply going to stop by and have a _conversation._ ” With a tilt of her head and the force of _the look_ as Yvette had once called it, describing it to be something similar to how their mother looked when she was cross with them, Josephine reeled back Ida’s lack of control.

“Humph, fine,” Ida frowned, disapprovingly. “But if Lord Ricci turns tail and runs off in the other direction, don’t say I didn't try to warn you.”

With one more exasperated sigh, Josephine lifted herself from the chair she was confined to all morning and gave a long stretch of her spine. She straightened out her dress, and with one more breath to compose herself, Josephine started off to whatever inconvenience Ida had talked her into.

It did feel nice to move about after hours of being stuck in the same position. Extending her legs, willing her blood to recirculate; she never liked staying in one place for far too long. Josephine reached for her doorknob and pulled it open, one foot out the door before she was forced to reel it back in. Ida let out a surprised noise from behind her.

“Oh, Lord Alesso,” Josephine startled. Well, speak and they shall appear. “We were just about to come find you.”

Alesso was flush in the face, a loose grip held on the rapier by his side. “I’ve surely saved you a tremendous amount of time.” Even with exhaustion riddled on his expression, he curled his lips in a jovial manner. “What can I do for you, my Lady?”

Josephine stepped into the hall with him and threw a side glance at Ida. “Well, I was just curious to see what you were up to. I can guess you had-” she nodded to the rapier, “-quite an eventful morning?”

“Eh,” he shrugged. “Just some light dueling with the other Lords in the courtyard. There seems to be nothing more fun we, as men, can do than compare sizes and poke at each other’s backs. I am speaking about swords here, of course, before your mind goes to the gutter.”

Josephine blinked for a second longer than usual. “Still a more eventful morning than mine, I presume. I’ve been indulging in books. Currently, I am brushing up on Divine Renata’s sermon on integrity.”

“You are here _reading?_ ” Alesso’s eyes looked as if they would pop out from their sockets. “How boringly studious of you!”

Josephine let out a very long breath, depleting her lungs completely of air. “There is _nothing_ wrong with finding pleasure in reading.”

“There are many other pleasures to have here, my Lady! An estate full of young Antivan nobles, left to their heart’s desires? Think of all the trouble just me and you _alone_ could stir up!”

“That’s what I’ve been _trying_ to tell her,” Ida murmured. She tried to keep herself to the side as she usually did when Josephine engaged in talks with other nobles, but while Ida’s snark was meant to fall only on Josephine’s ears, it seemed that she’d spoken loud enough for Alesso to pick up on as well.

Alesso turned to her handmaid now, a thick brow raised. He gave her one look over before speaking. “And I do not believe we have been properly introduced.” His voice was an octave lower than usual, and Josephine noticed a twinkle in his eyes that was cause for concern. “What is your name, _bella?_ ” Oh, _much_ cause for concern.

Ida blinked a few times before she realized that he was speaking to her. She stole a quick glance at Josephine, almost for confirmation, before she cleared her throat and stood up straighter. “Idella Capuzzi, Ida for short, my Lord. Handmaid to the one and only: Lady Josephine Montilyet.”

“Idella Capuzzi,” Alesso repeated, crossing his arms and tapping his chin in thought. “How charming! Your family name is of Antivan ancestry, but could I infer that you are more than so?”

“You would infer correctly, my Lord. My mother is Antivan, and my father is,” Ida paused, then corrected herself, “pardon, _was_ a Ferelden.”

“As I suspected. Your skin is too fair for these Antivan summers! Or, has your Lady simply been keeping you locked away?”

“Well, I do walk in her shadows, my Lord.”

Alesso tsk’d, head shaking at Josephine. “For _shame_ , Lady Josephine. How could you be so cruel to do such a thing?” Before Josephine could protest, Alesso turned back to Ida. “We simply cannot have you obscured by your Lady for a moment longer! Come, take a step forward, let me have a look at you.”

Ida, usually bold and unreserved, took a tiny step forward. Timidly, she stood, with her hands folded at her front, while Alesso gave her a thoughtful look. “As I suspect,” he mused, “you sparkle even more without the overcast hung over your head.”

“Thank you, my Lord.”

“No, thank _you_ for blessing me this fine day.”

Josephine, having heard _enough_ , stepped forward and hooked her arm with Ida’s. She narrowed her eyes slightly at Alesso, a subtle warning to reel back whatever impish delights were crossing his mind, because if she learned one thing about reading people in the Orlesian courts, it was that they had a certain look about them when they caught something of considerable interest. 

Of course, masks were often worn, an obtrusive cover of facial expressions, but the eyes were always readily available and easy to read. If anything, the eyes were what spoke the most about what emotions a person was feeling. And Alesso’s grey eyes brewed with something akin to a scattered summer storm; impulsive and impossible to predict.

“Lord Alesso,” Josephine firmly called to heel, like tugging a leash on a snapping hound, “I must apologize for our hasty departure, but I just remembered I made a promise to Lady Eneide. We are to discuss matters of personal interest over afternoon tea, and I believe I am ill-suitably late.”

“Hm,” Alesso drew back. “Lucky for you, I require a bath at this time. I suppose I shall see you later then, Lady Josephine.” He paused to look at Ida, a slow grin tugging on his lips. “And you, Lady Idella.” 

Ida tensed in Josephine’s arm. Josephine tried not to dig her nails into Ida’s forearm. With a bow of his head, Alesso turned and made his way to his room. Once he was out of sight, Ida tugged free from Josephine’s grasp, eyes beaming with delight. 

“Did you hear that? He called me a _Lady!_ No one has ever done that before! I mean, because it would be wrong, I am no Lady, _but still!_ Oh, Josie, he actually _spoke_ to me! And gave me a _compliment!_ ”

While Ida rambled on, Josephine gripped the bridge of her nose, eyes shut in solstice. “Ida, _please,_ calm down,” she begged. “What if he has his ear pressed to the door and is listening to you squeal like some devoted fanatic?”

Ida’s jaw clamped shut, but the smile was still too wide. While she did love it when Ida glowed like this, Josephine did not like that it was at the urging of Lord Alesso Ricci. Ida was incorrigible and stubborn, just as Josephine’s siblings were, and as such, Josephine was fiercely protective of her, and Alesso Ricci was not someone she needed to develop some sort of... _following_ for.

“ _Hey,_ ” Ida drawled, the smile slowly slipping from her face, “ _wait a moment._ You made _no_ such promise to Lady Eneide.” An accusatory finger was thrown up, one that Josephine shifted away from. “Why did you lie, Josie?”

Josephine shook her head and took off down the hall. Perhaps they really did need some tea, as Josephine was feeling too tense to be having that conversation now. “Just know that it was for your own good, Ida.”

“ _My_ own good?” Ida repeated, following on her heels. “What do you mean by that?”

It was genuine confusion, which only seemed to make this worse. “I mean,” Josephine thoughtfully began, “that Lord Alesso lacks any tact, and to enable him further will only lead to trouble. Trouble that I will be sure you do not stumble into.”

Ida pondered on that thought for a moment, before she quietly managed to speak again. “I can take care of myself, you know.”

Josephine sighed and said nothing, though she had her many doubts. 

She knew men like Alesso, flamboyant and bodacious, with their heads much too far up their ass to differentiate one innocent from another. And she knew women like Ida, innocent and naive, with their heads far too high above the clouds to see the waving red flags. They were two kinds of people who did not, and should not mix. Ever.

The metaphorical jar of hearts Alesso carried with him was overflowing, if the stories he’d told her over last night’s flask of burning liquor held truth. His love life, or lack thereof, was full of late night rendezvous, one night stands, and occasional visits to the local brothel. He was not a man looking to be tied down any time soon, and many women (and men as well), had become too disappointed to learn of such a fact.

 _“I am still devilishly handsome and very young, so why not take full advantage of my good looks, hm? While I still can? Not like you, who has so quickly found herself bound by marriage,”_ he had teased.

Josephine had rolled her eyes. _“I am not tied down just yet, mind you. But otherwise, not many have the heart to go around chasing coattails and trains, only to turn and make off once the fun of the chase has ended.”_

 _“You just need one heart, my Lady, and I keep mine_ very _close to my chest. These others, however? Maybe they could learn a thing or two from me.”_

She was not judging him, of course, of his desires to chase whoever he wanted, whenever he wanted. And while whatever he wished to do in his free time and with other people should have been his own business, Josephine still couldn’t help to feel a bit off-put by the harmful game he played, toying with others like they were little figurines.

It was then she cut off any and all lingering desires of there being _something_ with Alesso, intent on keeping him simply as a new found connection in her network and as a potential friend. Ida hadn’t been given the memo quite yet, though, she would be very soon, but there was no doubt in Josephine’s mind that Ida was going to get herself hurt if she encouraged and enabled whatever _that_ exchange just was. 

Josephine could not allow Ida’s heart to be added to Alesso’s growing collection. If she could stop it, she very much would.

*****

The second night following the gala, in the middle of her getting ready for bed, Josephine heard a knock at her door. She stood from her vanity and pulled her hair over one of her shoulders, fingers still combing through the damp tangles. 

It was probably Ida coming to deliver her clean laundry for tomorrow, and she was rather excited to see her friend. Perhaps she could convince Ida to stay and braid her hair and collect any more rumors that the servants had been exchanging.

So far, there had been no news released surrounding the investigation. Comte Boisvert had not been seen since the gala, but it was as expected. His mornings and afternoons were spent in meetings, reassuring the Antivan envoy that a crime such as that committed on Orlesian soil would be dealt with in the quickest and most justified way possible.

His presence was indirect, mostly in the form of his steward coming to share news of whatever pleasures the Comte had arranged for the day. Josephine hadn’t mind at first, but her thoughts grew more restless as her mind overflowed with nothing but passing gossip. She was desperate for something to hold on to, something to appease her mind; something that made _sense_ , because all she had so far to keep her grounded was speculation.

Much of that second day had been spent inside, even with the lifting of her impromptu house arrest. She had no such energy to indulge in whatever social functions the other nobles had organized. Ida and Alesso both had even tried to coax her out, to no avail: _I’m much too tired,_ was her excuse.

It was a probable one. The last two nights, Josephine had spent little time asleep. How could she, with the fear that someone could be lurking in the shadows, the same someone (or _something_ ) that had claimed the Prince? Every time she shut her eyes, she would be there again, on the fringe of the dance floor watching, hearing that thump-thump-thump of his body on the steps.

None of it made sense. None of it seemed real. The only thing that could convince Josephine that the memory was not some fever dream, was the thought of the person whom she’d shared that memory with.

Lady Evelyn.

Thinking about her mystery woman made it more bearable, though it still drove Josephine to the brink of mental exhaustion. Her curiosity of the woman spewed into desperation, bordering on obsession the more she thought about her. Josephine just wanted to _know:_ if she was who she said she was, if the rumors were true, if she had _something_ to do with the assassination.

It was driving Josephine mad, being left in the dark and not knowing a single thing. If only she could see her again. If only she could put those lingering questions to rest…

Josephine opened her door expecting to see her young handmaiden. Instead, a shadow had slipped through the crack of the door, pushing Josephine aside. The door clicked and locked behind them. To her surprise, it was not Ida coming to see her, but the one person who she'd shamelessly spent hours into the days and nights thinking about.

Speak, and they _surely_ shall appear.

“Lady Evelyn?” Josephine gaped. She blinked several times, and every time, the mystery woman from the other night remained there in Josephine’s bedchambers. “What- when- _how_ did you manage to get in here? There are guards posted at every corner of the estate!”

“Not every corner,” Evelyn deadpanned, taking a quick glance over the room. Pleased with what she’d seen, her eyes settled back on Josephine, one hand on her hip while the other hung lazily by her side. “Did you know these walls have many secrets?”

The quirk of a perfectly plucked brow was enough to send Josephine into a stupor. She had wished to see her mystery woman again. Perhaps, though she was loath to admit, even daydreamed about it - stumbling across each other by chance happenstance - but her daydreams were not at all like...like _this!_

To meet so abruptly, after hours in the privacy of Josephine’s bedroom: it was bordering on scandalous rather than, well, she wouldn't admit that her daydreams were in any way _romantic_ . It was too personal, too private, too... _abrupt_ for her liking. She wanted to be prepared when (or if) they'd meet again, and Josephine was not at all in the slightest bit. 

Her heart’s cadence was irregular, thumping madly in the drums of her ears. She wondered if Evelyn could hear it, too. “Th-the walls have many ears, as well,” Josephine managed to say without too much of a stumble. “You should keep your voice to a minimum, lest somebody realizes there is an _uninvited guest in my chambers._ ”

Evelyn made a noise, a light hum emitting from her throat. She said nothing else to pin just what emotion she was feeling, but for a moment, they simply stared at each other, engaging in a sort of game of assertion. Josephine took this as an opportunity, taking the moment to reel in the truth of this woman, no longer hidden underneath velvet and embroideries.

Evelyn was dressed instead in simplicity: a white cotton tunic was tucked into black trousers, with leather boots laced up on her feet. Her hair was loose and flowy, sort of disheveled in a way, like the sheets on an unmade bed. Tied about her left wrist was a red strand of fabric, and over on her right hand was a single silver ring, the emerald there a near carbon-copy of her eyes.

It was very clear that Josephine had been correct in her assumptions. She was no ordinary Lady; at least, not one that was conventional in the sense. Still, without all the gold and the propriety, Josephine found her shining as bright as she did at the gala. Possibly even brighter; _truer_ ; bolder, a flame that had only grown in strength from the last time Josephine had seen her.

 _Utterly charming_ , she was, even still.

Her basics were not all that surprised Josephine, however. As her eyes wandered low, her breath caught in her throat at the sight of a small knife sitting on Evelyn’s waist. She had come prepared to defend herself, though it was futile considering Josephine wasn’t much to defend against. Otherwise, the thought had passed through Josephine’s mind that this woman could be a danger. 

A potential threat. 

But, for some reason, not much of a threat to Josephine as the dagger remained where it was, untouched. 

She hoped to keep it that way.

Evelyn seemed to be doing the same as she was, giving Josephine a thorough look over. When she noticed, Josephine crossed her arms and shifted uncomfortably, suddenly very aware of her indisposition. As if she were standing before her mother, she cowered into herself, fingertips rubbing the damp ends of her hair. 

Josephine was often proud, but maybe she’d back down, just this once. “Are you going to explain yourself to me, or are we to engage in this stalemate until we tire ourselves well into the night?” She was the first to speak, squirming in the silence that engulfed them both. It felt like a weight upon her shoulders, threatening to crush her flat if she didn't at least try to fill that empty space with her words. “If so, perhaps we should have a seat.” 

Josephine gestured to the table, but Evelyn remained where she was. “I’ll stand, thank you.” Her tone was heavy. Darker, even, than what Josephine remembered. Purposeful, straight to the point, with clear intent behind every word. “And I don’t think I need to explain why I'm here. You already know the reason behind my visit.” There was no dancing around the truth, no more of a chase that Josephine had enjoyed the other night. It was simply, purely business.

Josephine felt the corner of her lip twitch. If it was like that, then Josephine would have no choice but to match her energy. She followed Evelyn’s shift, shedding those not-so-first meeting jitters and settling into refined delicacy. “Yes, I suspect I know the reason behind your visit, but would it hurt you to be more cordial?” Evelyn stood a bit straighter, but she said nothing in response, her eyes flickering between Josephine’s gaze and something else across the room. So it was like that, then? No matter, Josephine had more patience than this. “I’d like to start with your name. Your real name, if I may.”

It was the first jab of the night. Well, more so a light poke, if anything. Still, Josephine focused on the sharp lines and bends of Evelyn’s face. There was a slight narrow of her eyes, so brief that it would've gone unnoticed, had Josephine not been looking for it specifically. “I told you my real name. I was honest about that, at least.”

Josephine raised a brow. “Your family name was honest as well?”

“Does it matter what my family name is?” 

“I am just curious as to who is sneaking into my bedchambers in the evening, with a plethora of guards just within earshot of the door,” Josephine cooly announced. “I fear the guards won’t be too happy to find an uninvited guest in the estate during these…troubling times.”

It was a tiny threat, and one that proved successful. Tiredly, Evelyn dragged her hands down her face. Josephine was pleased to find that Evelyn was still an open book, dangerously expressive in her ways. “Trevelyan,” she grumbled out between her fingers, “my family name is Trevelyan.”

_...Trevelyan?_

Now that...was a surprise. Evelyn was indeed from the Free Marches, if her accent didn't already paint her as so, but Josephine could not have expected her to be a _Trevelyan_. 

Josephine nodded slowly. Well, that confirmed her relation to the Champion of Kirkwall was a departure from the truth, and thus, revealed the possibility of there being _multiple_ fabricated facts in her story. “Ostwick nobility,” she assumed. “So, you _are_ a Lady.”

 _“No,_ ” Evelyn snapped, and Josephine’s silly nerves caused her to jump slightly. Ah. Modest in temper, bold in deed. A Trevelyan indeed. “I think you should not refer to me as something I’m clearly not.” 

Evelyn folded into herself, hands gripping her upper arms almost protectively. Josephine lingered on the shift of her tone, the consistency of her body language revealing more than her words could. There was the omission of _‘not anymore’_ at the end of her statement. 

_How interesting..._

Josephine dared to take a small step forward, ever-more curious though mindful, as if approaching an easily spooked mare. “How would you like me to refer to you as?”

Evelyn stared at Josephine for a moment, lashes fluttering fast. “… _What?_ ” 

“Surely,” Josephine said, gentler, “you have some title that I could call you by rather than your name. Serah Trevelyan, perhaps? Correct me if I am wrong, but I believe that is the proper form of address in the Free Marches.” Whether she called herself a Lady or not, Evelyn was still of noble lineage, and therefore somewhat of an equal to Josephine. It would make the most sense to address her as such.

“ _Serah?_ ” Evelyn repeated, almost bewilderedly. There was a pause, her expression twisted in confusion, almost as if Josephine had grown a second head, then, contemplation as she looked away. “No, they don’t call _me_ that in...” she trailed off. Then, very quietly, from the side of her mouth, “I have a ship,” she said, like it was a shy admission.

_Well, maybe not, then..._

Josephine didn’t let her surprise show, but a ship? How puzzling. Was she in the trade? “Captain Evelyn Trevelyan, then.” Josephine swirled the words around her mouth, testing how they felt on her tongue. The name with the title wasn’t at all familiar, but _Trevelyan_ …that was a name many around Thedas knew. That was a name even _her_ _family_ knew. Personally, if she could remember her ancestors’ dealings with the old money family. “It is a pleasure to finally make your true acquaintance.”

If Josephine was so intrigued by this woman before, she _surely_ was now. 

Evelyn frowned, a crease forming in between her brows. She turned away then, seeming to take interest in Josephine’s bedchambers. She plucked an apple from the basket on the table and began to toss it, a casual display of carelessness.

“Now that introductions have been made, let's get down to business,” Evelyn said. “When is your fiancé getting here?” Josephine watched her carefully. There was a slight stress on that word: _fiancé_. She maintained no sort of eye contact with Josephine, clearly set on hiding herself away. “I’m on a tight schedule, and I’d like to negotiate an exchange for the relic. It’s very important that I leave Val Royeaux with it.”

She was antsy now; nervous; that much, Josephine could tell. Though the Captain wore no mask of her own, it was clear there was much she was trying to conceal. Josephine had broken through that first layer of her protective coating, and the Captain was very much peeved by the fact. 

Josephine, however, was not yet satisfied with her breakthrough. How much further could she possibly stretch this conversation? How much information could she gather from this one meeting? She may not have approached Evelyn with the intent of playing the Game the night of the gala, but this night was a different one, and Josephine had her own motives now.

She had a curiosity to tame, a thirst to quench, an obsession to satisfy. The Captain was a novel she’d yet to complete, and Josephine wished to sit down and read her through and through. She wanted to press further, deeper, into this woman, and soak up all that she was; like Josephine was a needy sponge, greedy to be full with _her_ ; her past, her present, even her future, what made her tick, what made her squirm; Josephine wanted to know it _all_ , and not once did she ever consider _why_.

“The trek from Cumberland is, through sea passage, three days at least.” Josephine’s words were deliberately drawn out. Spoken slow, stretching the syllables out longer than it needed to be while she pondered her next move. “I received word from my betrothed today that he would be departing business soon, so expect him to arrive sometime after three days from today.”

The apple rested in Evelyn’s palms. “Three days?” She turned her head just slightly to the side, a slight incline to her jaw. “That just won’t do. I need to have it now.”

“Well, there is not much I can do about that. In three days, we can discuss the possibility of an exchange. As for now, you must wait.”

Evelyn said nothing else. Instead, she placed the apple back where it belonged in the bowl. Her hand lingered over the surface before she drew it back and hid it away in the pocket of her trousers. “I’ll be back in three days, then. I’ll trust you won’t mention my visit to anyone?”

From what Josephine had gathered so far, Evelyn was a defensive player. She was very protective of her walls, deflecting and dodging whenever she could, but she had just revealed a break in her guard; she had _asked_ for a _favor_.

It was what Josephine had been waiting for; an exchange; an opportunity; a way _in_. “If I hold promise,” Josephine carefully mused, “would it be too much for me to ask for one of my own?”

A lower lip caught in between teeth. Evelyn’s gaze thoughtfully lingered on the dying flame within the hearth. “That depends on what it is I'll be promising.”

“I provided intel that proves beneficial to you, so would it be wrong for me to ask for some of my own?”

Evelyn let out a breath, a silent sigh of exasperation. “What do you want to know?” She defeatedly replied, head thrown back to cast her gaze skyward.

 _A lot_ , Josephine wanted to say. She wanted to unravel this woman, know every in and out, every bump and bruise. She wanted to pick her apart like a puzzle and put her back piece by piece, feeling the satisfaction of discovering and snapping together the links of her being, of seeing the whole picture after staring at the bits.

Instead of giving in to her own selfish desires, however, she settled on remaining diligent. There was no time for Josephine to sit and hold conversation with this woman through the night, no matter how hard she could try to force it. Josephine did need to know one thing for sure, though.

“What were your full intentions on the night of the gala?”

Evelyn cleared her throat, a moment to seemingly compose herself. “Do you want to know the truth?”

Briefly, Josephine glanced at the knife. It was the one obstacle that sat between the two of them, like a deterring wall of stones. “I would only hope for nothing but the truth, but it is up to you whether you want to respect my wishes or not.”

It was then Evelyn fully faced Josephine once more. She contemplated her options for a moment, the firelight flickering gold in her emerald orbs, shadows dancing briefly across the cut of her jaw and high cheekbones. It seemed like the first time all night that she truly looked at Josephine. 

Her gaze held more intensity than it did when they’d met. While it was still cautious and unsure, here, it felt as if Josephine was being stripped bare and searched thoroughly. She was, as Josephine had been doing, trying to get a read on her, and it gave her chills all the same.

“I was hired to track down the relic and obtain it by any means possible for a collector.” Captain Evelyn’s voice was controlled, steady, her eyes holding Josephine’s captive. More sure. More confident. _Truthful_. “The means in which I intended to use were less than legal, as I’m sure you’ve already figured.”

“Would you remind me of what the means were, exactly?”

“A friend of a friend was able to slip my alias on the list after it was finalized, bypassing the coordinator and the Comte. This was how I managed to get in.”

“Which explains why you could not have partaken in the...after party affairs,” Josephine more-so stated rather than asked. “They would have you arrested immediately, had they found out the truth.” 

_Though, she ended up as a suspect regardless._ Josephine would choose to omit this fact, storing it as background ammunition were she to need it.

Evelyn nodded in confirmation. “The plan was to find the mark-” Josephine visibly winced at that word, a single syllable that seemed to reduce her to an object rather than a person, and almost immediately wanted to chastise herself for getting her feelings _hurt_ over it, “-and coax the dagger out of them. Maybe get them to show it off and snatch it from their hands.” Evelyn shifted her weight from one leg to another, her gaze breaking from Josephine’s to whatever it was she found so interesting across the room.

Josephine might've been staring too hard, but she was, for whatever reason, profoundly wounded at Evelyn’s choice of words. Josephine didn’t know whether she was to take an angry offense with the approach. Did she truly think Josephine wouldn’t have noticed? Did she think Josephine so clueless as to not realize when and if she’d been swindled? 

Was she really that dispensable, like a little piece on a game board of chess? Josephine would not let her hurt show. She condensed it into a tiny manageable size, and swirled her different thoughts around in her mind until it resembled one that was appropriate.

“How easy did you think this mission of yours would be?”

“Well,” a thoughtful pause, a frown, “surely, easier than this. But I guess thinking something will be easy doesn’t necessarily mean it will be.” Josephine wasn’t sure if it was the light of the flame playing tricks, but there was a hint of color on the Captain’s cheeks as she turned her head to the side. Josephine would've found it endearing had she been in a state of mind that allowed her to feel so. “As you can see, I'm not very good at planning things.”

“Yes, I can see that.” Josephine let out a calming breath. At least it was her that approached Evelyn first that night. She could say she was one step up over the Captain, and, judging from how things were going so far, she still was. “I assume you do more than just trade?”

Evelyn lifted one shoulder and tilted her head. “One thing exchanged for another, objects passing ownership through hands; it’s all trade to me.”

“But is that _all_ that you do? You have more skills than a simple tradesperson would require,” Josephine pointed out, “skills that no ordinary person would possess unless they were-” she thought about how to phrase this, fidgeting with several words on her tongue, “-specifically _trained_ in the art _._ ”

“Like an _assassin_ would be?” Josephine bit the inside of her cheek. She tried not to stare so obviously at the knife, but Evelyn seemed to have noticed, her brow raised slightly in question. “Are you trying to ask if I had something to do with the assassination?”

“I’ll admit,” Josephine murmured, “the odds are not looking to be in your favor so far. There is much speculation surrounding you, Captain.”

Evelyn let out a tired breath. She crossed an arm and gripped the bridge of her nose, eyes shuttering away. “That’s just another inconvenience for me to deal with, huh?” She mumbled to herself than Josephine, before lifting her head. “I had _nothing_ to do with the Prince’s death. It was all just terrible divine timing, and I know there's a possibility that you won't believe me, but it's the truth.” Those words held force, pushing head first with a stubborn frustration to back. “I didn't come with the intention of using violence. That's not the way I prefer to do these things. I just wanted to slip in and leave before anyone noticed the dagger was gone.”

There was a silent moment that followed her words, full of a thick tension as Josephine evaluated the Captain for her truthfulness. There was nothing in her body language that said otherwise, and though just her word shouldn’t have been the sole piece of evidence, Josephine found herself somewhat satisfied, if not incredibly relieved.

“I suppose,” Josephine began, her voice quieter than she intended, as if she were sharing a sensitive secret, “I do not believe you had anything to do with the prince.” And perhaps, she was. This confession of hers gave power to the Captain; if Josephine were to be incorrect in her judgement, there were so many things that could go _wrong_. “Otherwise, I do not believe you’d risk coming back here.”

“I told you, all I want is the relic.” Evelyn let out an audible breath of relief, long slender fingers combing through the hair at her scalp. “Whoever killed your Prince wants to carry around more than just a small piece of history. They want to alternate it completely.”

Josephine anxiously licked her lips. “Have you any clue as to who could possibly want to do such a thing?”

“Not a single clue. I don't concern myself with the politics of other nations,” Evelyn easily dismissed. “I barely concern myself with the politics of my own. It's too much out of my hand, and here, it's too much out of _yours_.”

“I should tell you I have quite the affinity for politics. Your sentiment is appreciated, but not needed.”

“I'll save my breath, then. Since we've come to a mutual understanding, you’ll let me leave with no problem?”

“Ah, before I let you go, there is one more question I’d like to ask of you.” 

“Fine. What is it?”

“You say you are not a Lady anymore.” And just like that, Evelyn had shied herself away, those lips of hers melting into a frown. Still, Josephine had come this far. She might as well go all the way. “Could I ask why that is?”

“No,” Evelyn abruptly turned away, “that’s- that’s not something I’m willing to discuss with you.”

Josephine pressed her lips into a thin line and cursed within her mind. “Well,” she took a step forward, “is it so troubling for you that I wish to understand?” Maybe she would try a more direct approach. “You were born into nobility, I assume. I am just trying to make sense of how you are a Captain of the trade, but no longer a Lady. As far as I can tell, your career choices do not change who you are.”

“Why do you want to know so bad?” Evelyn spun back around to shoot Josephine a sharp glance. Her hands were tucked back into her arms, cheeks blown out and eyes practically throwing arrows into Josephine. “What does it matter if I’m a Lady or not? It’s not like I would have anything to offer to you.”

“My intentions were not to gain something of monetary value from you,” Josephine blinked. The Captain’s changeover was remarkable. It was as if she were two different flames to a fire: one that nourished, the other that quelled. Either which way, Josephine was sure to get burned if she wasn’t cautious. “If not information, there is nothing else I would ask of you to give me.” 

“Oh, _sure,_ ” she drawled, _truly_ not believing Josephine. “I’m not a complete idiot, you know. Information is just as expensive as shiny jewels. Just as persuasive and just as powerful, especially when it comes to _you_ people.”

“ _You people?_ ” Josephine echoed.

“You rich kids,” she stepped forward, a finger jabbed in Josephine’s direction, “with your fake smiles and fake words, hiding behind your pretty dresses and doll faces to convince everyone that you're _more_ than just that poisonous rotting seed growing within you, more than just your greed and your wealth and your ambition. And _don't_ try to pretend like you don't know what I mean.”

_Well, then. That was quick..._

“Huh. I see,” Josephine thoughtfully hummed. If the Captain wanted to hurt Josephine, she would have to do a better job than that. Josephine, on the other hand, didn’t have to put much force into the way of her sharp tongue. She was always so careful when it came to her words, but it had been too long since she’d had the chance to duel in a way that was not physical. The thought of being able to do so was lifting; _thrilling_. She couldn’t help now but to think of the Captain as an exercise, of sorts.

“It is fitting that you have green eyes, Captain,” Josephine leered. “You see things under the influence of your jealous emotions, born from your poor self-image. I could only infer that your fall from respectable Lady to modest Captain was the fault of your own two left feet.”

Her words were effective in the way she'd intended them to be. The Captain was riled up. She clenched her jaw and her fists all the same, and though it should've served as a warning to back away, it only enticed Josephine more. "Stop pretending like you know me more than you actually do,” Evelyn hissed. “Do you really think you can get into my head with just a few sharp words?”

“I do not simply _think_ I can get into your mind, I _know_ I can. It is not quite difficult to do so, Captain.”

“ _Ugh,_ ” Evelyn growled out, a noise that was between frustration and repulsion. She turned for the door all of a sudden, set on making a hasty departure. “I didn’t come here to get interrogated by _you_.”

“Take a thorough look at your standing here, Captain, because I should, and _you_ should, believe otherwise. Really,” she scoffed, “at this point, I am set to believe it is _you_ who needs me rather than the vice-versa.”

Evelyn paused with her hand on the door knob. Still, she did not turn; Josephine had her right where she wanted her. “That’s ridiculous,” came Evelyn’s dark tone. “I don’t need you.”

“And do you think my betrothed would so easily give the relic to you? Would you, if you were in his shoes, simply pass along a rare novelty to whoever asked of it first?” The quick turn caught the Captain off guard, but when she failed to come with a response, Josephine readily filled the silence, boldly stepping forward. “Let me remind you of your position: _you_ are a number one suspect to the investigation, with the Comte leading the chase for your tail. And _you_ are here, with _me_ , in the _Comte’s_ estate, surrounded by _guards_ on every side. I think you are not in a position to be so stringent with me, Captain.”

Evelyn’s expression had darkened immediatly, like a cloud had suddenly passed over the sun. Josephine could feel the temperature in the room rise, the air thickening and pressing stickly against her skin. The knife that had remained untouched up to this point was finally acknowledged. Evelyn’s hand found the handle, and out from its resting place it came.

“You think you can whip me to your beck and call? Push me around like one of your little serving girls? Let me remind _you_ : you are nothing to me, _Lady Josephine,_ ” Evelyn snarled, the steel blade catching in the firelight. 

It was barely the length of her palm, yet the sight of it against Josephine’s unarmed self was enough to pull her to reality. Josephine took a step back, adamant on retaining the space between them. A sharp point dug into her hip once she’d bumped against the edge of the table. She sucked in a sharp breath, not quite full enough to calm the staccato of her heart. 

“I don’t serve you.” Evelyn stepped closer and closer, that sense of danger swelling in Josephine’s throat; until they were just inches apart; until Josephine could smell hints of citrus and mint from her breath; until she could feel the anger, the heat radiating off of her body like a furious wood flame. 

Evelyn placed a hand on the edge of the table, flush against Josephine’s own, and brought the dagger up with her free one. “ _You_ serve _me,”_ she gritted. “And you're going to do _exactly_ what I tell you to do, which is be a good girl, shut up, and _keep quiet_ .” Josephine tilted her head back. She could feel her pulse in her throat underneath the cool steel of the Captain’s blade, feel her body melting just from the intensity in the Captain’s tone alone. It was a low, guttural sound, close enough to a growl that ignited some long dormant part of Josephine’s mind. “Do you understand me?”

Josephine knew better. She knew she was trapped. She had no choice but to relent if she wanted to survive.

 _Survival._

That was the goal. 

Logical. Sensible. Appropriate. 

_And yet._

There was not one thought that was at all practical in her mind. Fear did not wreck through Josephine as it should’ve. No, because while there was anger in Evelyn’s eyes, there was also something else lingering there. Something... _deeper._ Something more... _titillating._

Desperate. Wrong. Primal. 

_A_ _hunger._

And Josephine found her heart wasn’t pounding in its place because of fear; she wasn’t afraid of the Captain, but rather, a deeply selfish and buried part of Josephine was wanting. _Needing._

Hopelessly, she was _hungering_ for that: the desire to be satisfied, to be _full_. Not necessarily in any way that was less than proper, but she was waiting for a spark of life to come along, to light her body like a match and breathe life back into the ashes of her being.

Adorno had been nothing but a pretty man to parade on her arm. They hadn’t so much as _held hands_ , their chemistry as lackluster as a lump of coal, dull and boring beyond measure. The closest she had gotten to feeling some spark was with Alesso, and though she thought about what could’ve come of their conversation on their balcony the other night, he had lost his appeal with the reminder of those insolent stories of his.

But here - _now_ \- with her mystery woman. This...this feeling was _different._ This feeling was _new._ This feeling was _revitalizing_ . Captain Evelyn Trevelyan was not a simple spark. She was a touch of fire, and Josephine was craving heat, craving passion, craving _intimacy._

And what was more intimate, she thought, than having her life in another’s hands?

“You will not hurt me,” Josephine challenged, the words spat out from the bubbling and snapping pit deep within her belly. Something red and hot sunk into her neck, sending a shiver of the most inappropriate kind right down the middle of her back. It made her knees tremble and her skin prick up as if there was a cold draft in the room, though there was nothing but heat running through her veins.

Evelyn pressed the tip deeper into that point of Josephine’s neck, breaking the surface of Josephine’s skin just the slightest bit. She said nothing else, but there was no need for her to do so. A moment of hesitation, a moment of _weakness_ , and that was all Josephine needed to turn against the tide. 

Josephine found her voice and continued with more confidence. She dared to lean into the blade, a clear assertion of her own dominance. Evelyn may have been the one holding the knife to her throat, but it was Josephine who was in control. She was being bold, but where this sudden burst of confidence had come from, she could only allude to the adrenaline and excitement of gambling between life and death.

“If you wished to hurt me, you would have done so already. You had all this time to do so. Even now.” Josephine gestured to the point, still applying that even pressure to her neck. “But there is uncertainty in the way you move, even in the way you speak, as if you are waiting for my lead. As if you are waiting for _me_ to decide the direction, the pace, in which we move.

“You do not lead. I, however, have been _trained_ to. This should be a reminder that I am many things, and a noblewoman is one,” Josephine continued, throwing even more kindling to the flame. “Your expressions are not controlled. Your face gives away all that you are feeling. I can so clearly tell, from the way your eyes are very nearly _screaming,_ ” the corner of Josephine’s lips quirked up in a smirk as she pushed forward; closer, until she could see Evelyn’s pupils dilate; closer, until she could hear the pounding of Evelyn’s heart; closer, until Josephine’s voice strained to fit within the tiny space between them, so small that she could barely _breathe_ , “that you desperately _need_ me, more than you've let yourself believe.”

For a moment, Josephine believed herself to be a fool. For a moment, Evelyn hadn’t moved. 

There was a flare-up of gold and orange in her pupils, a slight push of the knife; there was a ghost of a touch on her lips, a sharp intake of breath. 

There was a hammer in her chest, and a thought, a recognition, so brief, so _short_ , of just how close she was, of just how eager she was, of just how _little effort_ it would take to push on her toes and- and- and-

-And Evelyn pulled the blade away and turned, the knife disappearing back into its sheath. Josephine released a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding, fluttered open her eyes she hadn’t realized she was closing. She didn't move, simply because she didn't realize that she could, with the Captain no longer pressed against her but now halfway across the room. 

Evelyn glanced a bit over her shoulders, expression clouded, and turned her nose up. Disgust, but whether at Josephine or herself, she couldn’t quite tell. Still, it was an expression that said Josephine had, once again, obtained a victory of her own. 

A victory that was bittersweet, and not one bit satisfying.

“I’ll be seeing you in three days,” Evelyn spat. Then, like a ghost in the night, she slipped out from the doors from which she came. 

One second, she was there, and the next, gone. Like she was a figment of Josephine’s imagination. Josephine clutched at her throat just to make sure she was real, that what had happened was not another plot of her daydreams. 

She found her fingertips were stained dark red, the color of crushed cherries. 

And in her burned a dangerously insatiable flame. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy New Year! Wishing everyone a prosperous and wonderful year! 2020 was certainly...something else.
> 
> I could not for the life of me get this chapter to be remotely satisfying (thus why it took so long) but I guess it's acceptable now igig. I wanted the end to be TENSE but I'm not sure it's as tense as I wanted it to be hmmm.
> 
> Anyways, I started school (again), so updates might come to a desperate crawl until I reach that point of academic procrastination. Until then, thank you for reading!


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> > _You have walked beside me  
>  Down the paths where a thousand arrows sought my flesh.  
>  You have stood with me when all others  
>  Have forsaken me.  
>    
>  **-Trials 1:5**_  
> 

Evelyn could feel the emotion bubbling and thrumming through her veins. It painfully coursed through the whole of her being, hotter than the embers in a pit of fire, too deep within for her to reach and snuff out with the simple curl of her fist. Josephine - with her head of dark silk like venom and a touch as hot as the ire of a match struck - had slipped under Evelyn’s skin and consumed her body from the inside out. 

Fury fueled the thirst of a hungry flame, desperately desiring to be quenched, and sure as she was, despite all her best efforts to keep cool, Evelyn was _burning_ . Her heart was galloping hard, hooves of a racehorse stomping against her sternum. She was lightheaded and dizzy, and she swore, if there was so much as one more _tiny_ inconvenience, she’d surely combust from the pressure of it all.

Evelyn was- she was _angry_ . Frustrated as well but fuming with pure _rage_. She liked to say she was a calm, reasonable person, but Josephine had been too bold, too cocky. Big mouthed, like how most nobles were. Judgemental, quick to assume, with the need to always be in the right.

In her mind repeated Josephine’s sharp words and Josephine’s bold assumptions, and really, what the _fuck_ did she even know about Evelyn? Nothing. She knew _nothing_ about her. Only what _her_ mind wanted to tell her: _Evelyn was lost. Evelyn was weak._

Evelyn had no intention of using force against Josephine, but her damaged ego and pride had taken over like the shadows of the compelling moon and she wanted to feel that jackrabbit pulse underneath her fingertips, she wanted to watch her squirm like prey in the jaws of a predator, she wanted to fucking _ruin_ her.

Tarnish her, have her writhe and bend and snap to _her_ will. Oh, how unfitting her thoughts were; omnipotent, as if she herself could possibly have that control over Josephine. The threat of death, the power of life - of _Josephine’s_ life - dangling in _her_ hands. The thought of it was intoxicating. _Consuming_ . No human should have such power over another. It wasn't right, it _wasn't_ , and yet…

And _yet_.

A statement - a _truth_ \- as much as it was an order: _“You will not hurt me.”_

That _damned_ Antivan. Bold as brass and just as loud. She’d underestimated her, because wasn’t it Evelyn herself that had squirmed in the end? Struggled? Turned? As if Josephine had taken the blade and held it to Evelyn’s own throat? Writhed and bent and snapped, just from her words? 

_Ah_. The source of her anger was just that; Josephine was right. Evelyn couldn’t bring herself to hurt her. She needed her, and not just for the dagger, no, but for the satisfaction of some other reason, some other purpose, one that Evelyn couldn’t quite make sense of just yet.

It lingered there: underneath the surface of her skin where her blood flowed; in her restless nights where thoughts were full; of pretty freckles, of pink lips, of soft hands. Hands that nourished, that built up and did not quell...

 _...No_. 

Poisonous. Hands that were _poison_ ; hands that _hurt_ ; hands that _burned_ . Josephine was _poison_ . She was a poison that would surely kill Evelyn, as quick as it could be readily administered. And how could Evelyn have been so _stupid_ as to not realize it sooner? She was playing with fire - Josephine being the most dangerous game - and it seemed that Evelyn did not concern herself with the risk of getting burned. 

_Stupid stupid stupid._

She didn’t immediately return to the Bannered Mare once she'd escaped the Comte’s estate. Instead, she disappeared into the back alleys and the shadows of the city as it slept, her cheeks warm with shame. How could she face Cassandra and tell her what had just happened? That Josephine Montilyet, a noblewoman, a _stranger_ , was able to dangle her own blade right in front of her? 

Surely, if Cassandra had been the one in Evelyn’s shoes, she would not have faltered. She would have prevailed. She was strong. And Evelyn was so _weak_. 

Evelyn’s knuckles turned white. Her fists curled and her nails scraped into the skin of her palm; all but a tiny scratch, just like the parting gift she'd left on Josephine’s neck. A momentum, a reminder, that Josephine had led, and Evelyn had followed; danced uncontrollably to the tune of her song.

_Foolish._

She trudged through the city with her shoulders up to her ears, feet becoming heavier and heavier with every step. There was no destination in mind, but she needed to find some way to provide relief to her anger. Surprisingly, the streets had thinned out into nothingness; there was no one around for her to take her emotions out on, no one she could use to further fuel her rage. 

Instead, she would have to allow it to shrivel up and die away, like all flames did when they had nothing left to burn. Maybe she would prefer it that way; she never wanted to intentionally hurt people, but in fits of rage, she knew emotions could run away and get the better of her. 

Running. Getting away. 

Now, that was something _she_ could do. That was something she could _choose_ to do, something she could _control_. It was always about regaining control when things got out of hand; there was relief in being able to do so. Josephine had made it too difficult of a task, however, so it was best to have left when she did. 

Away from the root cause of her frustrations, away from Josephine, Evelyn was already beginning to feel better the further she went. She paused for a moment underneath the light of a magical lamp to catch her breath. When a stray gust of wind had caught in her hair, she pushed her strands away from her face and looked up. 

A small shadow was seen moving fluidly with the wind. It was dark with a splash of red, and Evelyn reached above her head to catch it. She scoffed. A black velvet tricorn hat rested in her palms, a single feather protruding from the top. The silly hat reminded her of the Admiral. 

_“I’ll get you a big hat with feathers. You’ll look like a proper Captain when you put it on.”_

She smiled. In that instant, the final embers had all but died out. She inhaled deeply and plopped the hat on her head, then pulled the brim over her eyes. Evelyn continued down the street with a bit more pep in her step, relishing in newfound privacy to continue her walk. Eventually, she decided to turn into a corner, some alley tucked between a floral shop and an antique store. 

Voices within the alley had silenced and faces had turned. Evelyn had frozen as well. “ _Toi là-bas!”_ Came a heavy Orlesian accent. Evelyn immediately lowered her head and turned around. She continued to step, her feet moving faster this time down the street from which she came. Chainmail clinked as weighted boots and heavy limbs moved from the alley. “You, there! Stop!”

Evelyn took off into a sprint, a mantra of curses repeated under her breath. Okay, _maybe_ it was foolish of her to wander the streets so late into the evening, especially when - if Josephine wasn’t bluffing - everyone must’ve been on the lookout for someone matching her exact description. She pulled the hat further over her face, sacrificing visibility for anonymity.

It would’ve been easy to lose the guardsmen; they were a large group, dressed in clunky armor and armed with swords. Evelyn had but the cotton on her back and a single knife. She was faster, nimbler, but if only she knew where she was. 

This district was unfamiliar to Evelyn, twists and turns she hadn't the opportunity to yet explore. She could say she was not at all confident in her movements. Time she did not have was spent pondering her next move. Her mind was stirred, her body hesitant; she took a right instead of a left and found herself at a dead end. 

Evelyn assessed her options. She could scale the wall, surely, picking out small juts of stone and frames of windows. But would she have enough time? A quick glance over her shoulder told her all she needed to know. _Probably not._ She had to try to do something, though, to better her chances of a single knife defending against five full-length swords.

And so, Evelyn gripped a stone and pulled, her foot finding leverage on the crates stacked against the wall. She didn't make it far up the wall before the guards had stumbled into the alley, waving their fists and spouting their threats. Evelyn did not listen to their words. She continued to climb until they had moved further in, and then stopped to dig into the small pouch she carried on her person. 

Evelyn pulled out two black orbs, held between the length of her fingers. “Okay,” she shouted, “I'll come down! Just give me a minute!” 

With a snap of her wrist, the orbs flew from her fingers. There was a loud _pop_ as the orbs met the ground, a slight hiss as black smoke filled the alleyway. The guards choked on the heavy fumes. Evelyn took a lungful of air and held her breath, then pushed off the wall.

She bent her knees slightly as she landed on her feet, then clenched her jaw and tucked in her chin. Lifting off her feet, she slammed the crown of her head up into the nose of the nearest guard, the crunch of cartilage a satisfying crackle of noise to her ears.

Her weight shifted and propelled her body forward. Using the momentum, Evelyn brought her fist back and swung blindly into the smoke, twisting about her waist and knocking knuckles against a jaw to her left. At the same time, the stinging bite of a sword’s edge had torn through her tunic, grazing her skin underneath.

Continuing with the forward plow of her feet, Evelyn left the alley and made her escape. This time, Evelyn had the opportunity to gaze at her surroundings. Everything was still unfamiliar, the district unusually quiet and empty, lacking in the night crawlers she was used to seeing in the districts closer by the harbor.

It was a residential area with many apartments and corner stores now closed for the evening. It was a place she was not familiar with, but Evelyn knew there was one thing that could be spotted from any point within the city. As expected, scanning the horizon, she spotted that _damned_ Cathedral. Its tall towers stood not too far off from where she was.

“There she is!” Came a shout. The guardsmen had freed themselves of her ruse, stumbling out from the alley with their chainmail stained with soot, lungs still coughing out their intrusions. One guard held by the support of another, head tipped back as blood ran over his chin from his twisted nose; he pointed an angry finger. “Don't let her get away!”

“This night could come to an end much sooner if you just let me go!” Of course, the guards were not going to simply _let her go_. If she made it to the Grand Cathedral, however, she could easily escape the guards’ capture. So, Evelyn ran again, her feet carrying her towards those sanctified towers.

She crossed through several neighborhoods and districts until the Grand Cathedral itself had finally come into her line of sight. She'd never felt such relief to see it, but her enjoyment was short lived because while she'd run across the city, she'd gathered the attention of many other patrols along the way, and was causing quite the disturbance in the peace of the night. 

Evelyn could not go directly to the docks. She'd lead them right to where her den was, and she'd be caught almost as easily as if she surrendered herself now. She paused in front of the Sun Gates and pondered her next move. 

She could continue to run, but exhaustion was settling into her limbs and the rush of adrenaline was wearing thin; the ache in her side and her calves intensified as the seconds passed. Evelyn’s only choice was to hide, but where was a place that the guards would not look? Where was a place she could find refuge in until it was safe for her to leave? 

Did such a place even exist in near proximity, with so many guards closing in on her?

“ _Viens ici!_ ” Evelyn jumped. She looked around to find the source of that voice, seemingly brought out of thin air. “ _Toi!_ ” Evelyn then turned her head to the right of her. A woman stood at the entrance of the Sun Gates, left slightly ajar enough for just her body to slip through. She hastily beckoned for Evelyn to come. " _Dépêche-toi!_ "

Evelyn did not move. Right besides the woman stood two steel-plated guards, their chest engraved with the mighty sword of the Templar Order. Though she really had little time to do so, she stood and weighed out her options.

Of course, when searching for a place of refuge, she did not - and would ever not - consider the Grand Cathedral itself. Though, it was quite the convenience, even if it was a terrible one. Those at the Cathedral concerned themselves only with the matters of the Mages, the Divine, and the Maker, the gates serving as some great wall that severed them from the rest of the world. 

The Templars would not persecute her, their duties lying outside the jurisdiction of the Royan guardsmen, and it seemed that the cloistered Sister was intent on meeting her quota of good deeds, choosing to harbor some loose _criminal_ from the streets. It was entirely too good to be true. 

Evelyn’s head turned at the distant shouts of the guards becoming louder. Back to the entrance of the Sun Gates, the robed woman continued to beckon. Though every fiber of her being was screaming at her to run, that it had to have been a trap of some sorts, Evelyn simply could not will her feet to do so. It was either face capture or face judgement; she shut her eyes and took a deep breath, and decided to take her chances with the Maker. 

Evelyn slipped behind the gates and did not wait for a moment before taking off to the small chapel in lieu of the actual Cathedral. She stumbled into the chapel and the woman came seconds later, sans the two Templars. The Sister shut the door, and finally away from the clutches of the guards, Evelyn allowed herself to breathe.

She knocked her head back against a nearby stone column. Her chest burned with every stretch of her lungs, and her hand pressed uncomfortably against the cut on her side. “Thank you,” Evelyn still managed to say, thankful for the given opportunity to hide away another day.

“You are very welcome,” the Sister replied, folding her hands over one another. She gave a thoughtful tilt of her head. “You know, I thought I recognized you.” 

At that, Evelyn snapped her head up and caught the light of the few burning candles in the chapel. With her free hand, she patted the top of her scalp, realizing the hat had flown off her head during her escape. She was completely exposed, and for however long, she did not know.

The Sister nodded in glee, almost as if agreeing with herself. “Ah! _Oui!_ You are the one who is quick on their feet! From the market the other day!”

“I...I’m sorry, I don’t remember you.” Truly, she didn’t.

“You had a friend. She was very kind. You,” the Sister chuckled, wagging a bony finger in reprimand, “not so much. Almost knocked me off my feet.”

Evelyn tore her gaze away. She furrowed her brows and tried to search for the memories from when she’d arrived in the city, but she was coming up blank. If only to take away from that fact, Evelyn shifted her focus to the growing pain in her side. She lifted her hand and cursed. Her palm was sticky and red, and just underneath the sharp tear of her cotton tunic, she could tell the simple scratch she’d gotten was more than what she’d thought.

“Ah,” the Sister winced at the sight. “You are bleeding too much. Please, come take a seat, so I may have a look at you.”

“No, it’s okay. I’m okay. I don’t plan on staying here for very long.”

“A wound like that must be looked after as soon as possible. You do not want infection to settle in.” The Sister had moved from her position by the doors to stand at the ingress of the nave, just to the side of Evelyn. “What is more, the guardsmen will be searching in this area for some time. It will be wise to rest while you can, before you should run back to where you came from. ”

Evelyn stayed where she was, with her back to the chapel and facing the doors. She didn’t dare make a move. She didn’t even dare to look at the Sister. Instead, she shut her eyes and tried to focus on her breathing, ignoring the pain that began to spread from her side and tip-toe across her skin.

Frankincense burned in her nostrils like smoke of a flame. Her nose immediately curled in disgust. She always hated the scent of it; it was too sweet, too warm, too bold and strong. _“The scent of the Maker’s breath,”_ her father had called it. It stunk. A putrid scent that twisted her gut and made her nauseous. 

It easily reminded Evelyn that she hadn’t stepped foot in a Chantry in a long time, and for good reason. Other than the smell of burning incense and stale books and old wood that turned her away, it was the Maker Himself who had done the same. Again, she only had herself to blame. 

She hadn’t said her prayers in years. She was upset, as angry with Him as He was with her. But, if she thought about it, did she have a right to that? To feel that bubbling hatred, born out of fear? Born out of the fact that the Maker had forsaken her, and she was too afraid of seeking Him back out, of having to face His rejection yet again?

Maybe He had given her another chance tonight. Maybe... _maybe_ He brought her there for a reason. Was He forgiving her? Was He asking for her to come back to His arms, to walk by His side yet again?

Evelyn almost laughed out loud. No. She was too stubborn to give in to all of that. She would not give Him that power over her again. She would not give in to His wishes. She was still so _angry_ at what He’d done to her. 

Angry; at all the pain, at all the suffering, at all the breath she wasted.

She’d held up her end of the bargain. She’d done all that was asked of her. She clasped her hands together and bowed her head at His feet, worshipped all that He was, gave herself time and again, listened to His words as they boomed from the Heavens and lived by them so zealously, so blindly.

And yet, her prayers, her pleads, were not heard by Him. He had not listened to her, as she did Him. He had deemed her devotion unworthy and turned her away from His light. He left her in the dust of destruction and abandoned her when she needed Him most, and now, she walked, without so much as a glimmer from His light.

“Let me help you,” said the Sister at last, and just underneath the sleeve of her tunic, where the Sister’s fingers curled, Evelyn’s skin burned as if touched by hot branding irons. 

Evelyn hissed and threw the Sister off of her. “Do _not_ touch me,” she lashed. Her body had grown too hot all of a sudden. The Sister took a cautious step back, gave Evelyn that space she so needed, but it still wasn’t nearly enough. 

The chapel was too small. There wasn’t enough space. There wasn’t enough _air_. She couldn’t breathe, all of a sudden, her chest feeling much too heavy for what little weight there was against it. The cotton of her tunic itched and burned, her heart thrummed in her ears; she was too aware of how badly her fingers trembled, and she could not, for the life of her, get them to stop.

Evelyn’s eyes darted across the chapel. The walls were closing in. Surely, the ceiling was beginning to droop, ready to collapse. This was not divine intervention, she reminded herself, this was pure luck, and she could not stay where she was not welcomed for a moment longer. She needed to leave before the weight of it all came crashing down on top of her.

Evelyn stumbled for the door. Her one hand not pressed against her side pushed against the wood, the only obtrusion between her and salvation. It felt much too heavy underneath her fingertips for how light it looked. When she stepped back out into the fresh air, Evelyn immediately felt relief. 

No more frankincense, no more candles, no more stale books and old wood and cloistered Sisters. No more weight, no more judgement; she’d save herself once more. Evelyn ran for the Sun Gates. She heard the Sister call after her, but she did not turn around. The Templars at the gates barely spared her a glance before letting her leave.

Evelyn tumbled back into the streets of Val Royeaux, back into harm’s way, and yet, she felt safer than she’d felt back in the chapel. She ran for however long she could, then turned around a corner and pressed her back against the shadows. 

The Sister would not follow her there; she would not find her again. Evelyn was gone, out of sight, out of the reaches of the Maker, and that was all that mattered. She was fine, now, _safe_ , but before she could black out completely, Evelyn made off in the direction of the docks.

Somehow, in her dazed state, she had stumbled upon the Mare. She was pleased to find the main deck empty, save for a few of the night crew snoring at their posts. It was for the best; the crew did not need to see their Captain in such a state of disarray.

Evelyn bursted into her quarters. Cassandra stood immediately from the table, her amber eyes going to the growing red splotch on Evelyn’s shirt. "Captain! What happened to you?!" 

Evelyn felt her knees buckle and she quickly grabbed onto the edge of the table. She slowly lowered herself into a chair, exhaling through teeth as she clenched her jaw. “I might've run into a few guards. Hurry, bring the aid kit from the cupboard and a numbing potion. I’m seeing stars.”

Cassandra was at Evelyn’s side in seconds, pushing an uncapped bottle of red liquid to her lips. Evelyn barely noticed the bitterness of the potion, eagerly downing it whole. Cassandra then tore away at the rest of Evelyn’s tunic, inwardly hissing at the sight of the cut. She grabbed a rag and poured some liquor over it, before offering the bottle to Evelyn. 

"Captain, _please_ tell me you were not seen by anyone in the city. We’re already in deep trouble as is, with whatever personal accounts from those at the gala that had seen us spreading like wildfire.”

Evelyn let the liquor trickle down her throat before she responded. “I could,” she drawled, taking in a sharp breath when Cassandra pressed against the wound with the rag, “but I’d be lying to you, and I’ve never lied to you before. I don’t think I want to start doing that now, so far into our friendship.”

“Who was it that saw you?” Her Quartermaster demanded, working her jaw in irritation. “Where at? Should we have Sera make sure they do not speak ever again?”

“No, no harm will come to her,” came Evelyn’s firm reply. “It was a Sister at the Grand Cathedral. She practically saved me from getting captured by letting me hide in the chapel.”

“A...a Sister?” Cassandra paused. “The Maker was surely on your side tonight.”

“Not the Maker, just pure luck.” Evelyn grunted when Cassandra pressed again, though the potion’s effects were finally sinking in, numbing away all sensations. “I roused a lot of the guardsmen. I think I should stay low for the time being, until things calm down again.”

“That was what you _should_ have been doing this whole time. Ugh. With the amount of chaos you stir up wherever you go, you will become a fugitive to the Empress and her empire in no time at all." 

Evelyn laughed, even if it hurt. "You'll come babysit me the next time I go out, then?"

"If I must. You surely must not be allowed to walk the streets of Val Royeaux on your own in the future.”

She couldn’t help but to smile at that. Evelyn could always depend on Cassandra to be there for her, and there was something relieving in knowing she wouldn't always be walking alone with her Quartermaster at her side. “Thank you.”

“You are welcome,” came her exasperated response. “Now, I have finished cleaning your wound. Should I go see Dalish and ask if she can remedy this?”

“Dalish? Why not Stitches?”

“This wound is not deep enough to require stitches. A simple healing spell will be just fine, should the apostate be in a sober enough state of mind to conjure one. I believe the Chargers went out for a drink. Or several. Bull promised endless rounds.”

“That's- that's not what I meant.” Cassandra raised a brow as if expecting an explanation, but Evelyn simply shook her head. “Nevermind. Just- just go find her. I want to lay down already. It's been a long night,” she sighed.

*****

It had taken Sera a full day and night of reconnaissance to figure out that yes, Josephine Montilyet was staying in the Comte's mansion, as were a majority of the Antivan nobles, and yes, the estate was on full lockdown, with not more than a single courier passing through the gates.

Safety precautions had been raised higher than they had the night of the gala; guards were reported to be swarming every hall, posted at every possible entry and exit of the mansion. They rotated through rounds and patrolled the perimeter, eyes watchful and ears wide, like careful hawks searching for any disturbance; for any intrusion.

There would’ve been no way for Evelyn to slip in undetected, not even if she suddenly had the ability to cloak herself and walk straight through, invisible to the naked eye. The guards would have surely sniffed her out, noses turned up like the Orlesian greyhounds that were taken on hunts through the woods.

She was left hopeless. Stuck. Tugging at her hair in frustration. But, only for a moment, because when help was needed, there was always help to be found. And _bless_ Sera and her Friends with considerable reach. 

Records were... _borrowed_ from the Orlesian municipal center; blueprints, revealing secret passageways in the Comte’s ancient walls. Evelyn had come from behind a tapestry of Andraste strung up in the hall of the west wing, after traversing through cold and damp catacombs, left untouched underneath the city for what seemed like Ages.

Even after she’d escaped the chapel and the guards and returned to the Bannered Mare, Evelyn felt the spiders from the catacombs crawling about her skin. No amount of checking could confirm their presence, however, so paranoia had kept her senses sharp.

Dalish had come and taken care of her wound, and soon after, Evelyn had asked to be alone. She did not sleep that night, her body still too warm and her skin still tip-toeing with spiders. Still, she laid in her bed and stared up at the ceiling as if sleep would eventually come. The morning had come quicker in its stead, and once the first slithers of light had filtered through her port windows, Evelyn left the comfort of her sheets, only to hunch over her desk as she so often did.

There was not much to do while they waited for a ship from Cumberland to sail in, and if the guards were not restless following the assassination of the Prince, they surely would be now, with Evelyn having woken up nearly half the city and shown her face. 

She was not as worried as she could’ve been. The area near and in the harbor was a safe place, with many scoundrels and ne’er-do-wellers not bothering to throw a second glance her way. Still, Evelyn decided it was a perfect day to hide away in her quarters doing jack all while the rest of her crew played in the sun. 

She had no such energy to go frolicking with her company, last night having taken much out of her. Evelyn would instead take a day to relax. Whatever that meant.

Evelyn had a stack of papers on her desk to poke through, a letter from Isabela amongst the lot. She hadn't read it yet. It came the day after the gala, no doubt filled with questions that Evelyn did not have the heart to answer. Shame still burned in her cheeks at the thought of Josephine beating her to submission. Evelyn could not come to any bold or confident conclusion; at least, not until she had the dagger in her possession.

So instead, she crunched numbers and pondered amendments to the Chargers’ contract, aiming to sit down with Bull and his mercenary group soon to discuss renewals. After some time, there came a sudden knocking.

Evelyn stared at the door. Her chest tightened for some reason, as did the grip on the quill in her hands. She could not immediately find her voice. When the knock came again, this time more urgently, Evelyn finally managed to croak out a response. “Who is it?” 

“Hey, Captain?” To some degree of comfort, it was Krem who popped his head in, but the Lieutenant looked visibly uncomfortable. “There’s, uh, someone here to see you?”

“Shit.” The quill dropped into its inkpot. Evelyn rubbed her dampened palm on her thigh before coming to a stand. She wasn’t expecting any guests. “Is it the harbormaster? Tell him I’m not here, that I spent the night at a brothel, or- something.”

Krem stepped into the room and rubbed the back of his neck. “No need for you to worry, Captain. I think. It’s not that scheming old bastard coming to toss us out to the bleeding sharks, it’s some woman who says she knows you. Mentioned she’s got a gift for you.”

“Fuck,” she cursed again, the Sister from last night coming to mind next. “It’s not a woman in robes, is it?”

“Uh, no. She’s not wearing a robe. A cloak and a hood, though, with a basket in her hands. Looks like something out of a children’s fairytale novel. Real pretty, she is.”

Puzzled, Evelyn nodded, fiddling with the ring around her finger. “Alright. Send her in, then.”

“Right away, Captain.”

Moments later, Krem came back in with the guest who’d come to visit. Once in the privacy of the room, the woman pushed her hood back and shook out her hair; long, dark waves that cascaded over her shoulders. Evelyn’s mouth immediately went dry. 

"Josephine?” She squeaked. To Evelyn's blatant shock, it only took Josephine half the time Sera had taken, and maybe half the effort, to find _her_. Evelyn rubbed her eyes to make sure she wasn’t dreaming, but once her vision had settled and Josephine remained, it was too much for Evelyn to retain some level of respectable decency. “I- I'm surprised to see you again so soon."

"Good afternoon, Captain,” Josephine greeted, _infuriatingly_ kind as always, and with _that smile_ to boot. “I understand I was to wait for your arrival, but I felt the need to seek you out on my own accord. It was quite easy to track you down, I hope you don’t mind.”

Evelyn wouldn’t ask how Josephine was able to track her down. She probably didn’t want to know. She nodded at Krem and waited until he had left their company before speaking again. "What the _hell_ are you even doing here?" 

"I wished to provide you with a peace offering. Our meeting last night ended poorly, and I hoped to smooth over any bumps in our-” Josephine tilted her head, as if searching for a thought, and settled on the word, “-acquaintance.” Then, she thrusted her arms in offering, making Evelyn notice the small wicker basket clutched in her hands. “Have you indulged in Orlesian pastries before? These are my absolute favorites.” Evelyn stared in disbelief. She did not make a move towards the Antivan. Josephine had the audacity to chuckle, a light and airy noise that flitted like the wings of songbirds in Evelyn’s chest. “Please. I do not bite. At least, not without being asked first.”

Evelyn clenched her jaw, the memory of last night rushing back over her like a wave. Tension settled into her shoulders as she thought about how easily Josephine was able to get under her skin. She crossed her arms and puffed out her chest. Evelyn would not falter this time. This was her territory, her playing field; she had the advantage, here, and she would not let Josephine win over her again.

Even there, now, Josephine continued to hold herself with confidence, but there was also the presence of something else in her body language. Timid, careful, almost cautious. Josephine was at least respecting the boundaries there, waiting for Evelyn to decide what happened next.

It was her move. Evelyn could choose to be petty, to turn the Antivan away and reject her offering of peace. It was what her ego was screaming at her to do, but one glance at the unopened letter from Isabela on her desk brought reason back into her mind. Evelyn needed that dagger, and she would have to choose peace, even when all else in her body was telling her to choose revenge.

With a sigh of defeat, Evelyn crossed the room. She took the basket into her hands and wasted no time pulling apart the yellow ribbon tied around it, watching Josephine from the corner of her peripheral. She tucked the ribbon into her pocket once it'd come undone and flipped open the lid.

Immediately, the scent of peaches and berries and baked crust wafted into her face. A memory had come to life then; warm, like staring in the face of a burning oven; fresh, like the crisp air in the Ostwick countryside during the early spring. She could see her mother’s smile as she brought out a tray that had been baking in the oven.

Small, round, familiar; Evelyn knew what they were almost immediately, and though the memory was sweet, her tongue was bitter. "Fruit tarts.”

" _Orlesian_ fruit tarts,” Josephine clarified, almost proud. “The best in the city. I requested to have a fresh batch made by the Mademoiselle at my favorite _pâtisserie_ , as the bite is just decadent when they are fresh from the oven.”

It was a colorful spread, beautifully curated with care; crumbly crust brimmed with pastry cream and was lined with neat rows of fresh fruit. Evelyn frowned into the basket. “What game are you playing here, Josephine?” It wasn’t that Evelyn didn’t like the gift, it was the fact that she _did_ like it that made her upset. Fruit tarts were...they had a soft spot in her heart, and she hated that Josephine seemed to know just how to get under her skin. 

Again.

Evelyn looked back to Josephine, who wore a perplexing expression. “Game?” She repeated. “I am playing no game here, Captain.” She said the words almost as if she took offense, her own lips mirroring Evelyn’s in a clear showing of dismay. “Take my word: I only wish to amend any ill-feelings you may have towards me.”

“Oh-ho, do I have _several_ feelings,” Evelyn snorted, only pausing briefly to her horrification at her poor choice of words. “I pulled a knife on you,” she quickly added. “I think that alone says a lot about how I feel.”

“Yes, I understand I upset you quite terribly. I apologize profusely, for it was my own fault, really. But rest assured, Captain, you did not hurt me.”

Evelyn’s eyes dipped low to the soft patch of skin just under Josephine’s jaw. Josephine tugged at the collar of her hood, but was much too slow to shield away her gaze. Something in Evelyn’s stomach lurched at what she’d seen. “That discolored patch on your neck says otherwise.” 

Self-consciously, Josephine’s hand clamped over the spot on her neck. Her gaze faltered. The Antivan had come in so self-assured, so confident, that Evelyn should’ve reveled in that moment of weakness, but the tightness in her chest made it hard to feel anything more than just guilt. 

“It is but a scratch,” Josephine dismissed. “I’ve endured worse pains. Besides, my behavior was terribly lackluster. I could not have expected any other outcome than one of that stature.”

“Hold on, hold on, you’re saying you _deserved_ it?”

“I am saying that I was out of line, and you reacted in defense, as one would when they are attacked.”

Evelyn’s mind stuttered. She thoughtfully paused, taking the moment to process what Josephine had just said. When the words did, they did not settle comfortably, and Evelyn had half the mind to toss all the fruit tarts over her carpet. She could no longer look at Josephine directly without remembering just how viciously she had snapped, nor thinking about just how easily Josephine was forgiving her. It frustrated her for the reason that she had done something wrong, and yet, there were no repercussions for her actions. She was being _rewarded_ when she should have been _punished_.

“I don’t- what even- _why_ are you not angry with me?” Evelyn sputtered. “You should be _fuming_. You should- I don't know, have a whole brigade of guards with you right now, coming to drag me along to the noose!”

“I spent much time ensuring that the guards would not follow me here.” Josephine furrowed her brows and tilted her head. “Why should I have guards with me in the first place?”

“I could list several reasons right now _why!_ One: I am the _top_ suspect in the Prince’s assassination and everyone and their mothers are looking for me. Two: I trespassed the Comte’s estate not once, but _twice_ , and threatened _your life_ in the midst of the second time. Three: you truly don’t even know who I am, and for all you know, I could be at the top of some nation’s Most Wanted List.”

“Well, I suppose I should care to be more cautious,” came Josephine’s steady reply, “but strangely enough, I do not fear being alone in your presence. You are not someone I wish to fear. Rather, you are someone I wish to understand.” 

There came a sickening sweet smile at the end of Josephine’s words, and Evelyn could not bear to see it. She shook her head and turned away from the Antivan. “There’s not much else about me that you should concern yourself with, Josephine. I'm just a stranger to you, and no amount of peace offerings of _fruit tarts_ can change that.”

“All beings strive for some sort of order in life, yes? So, stranger or not, that title to a relationship matters very little when it comes to wanting to broker peace. But, I believe we've established some common ground today. You have not yet come at me with another knife, and I have not tempted you to do so. A positive progression.” Evelyn didn’t know what to say to that. Josephine seemed to have said all she needed, however. The Antivan bowed her head and pulled her hood back over her face. “Now, I truly wish I could stay, but I have been gone from the estate for far too long. I should return before they question my absence,” she said. “I hope you enjoy the fruit tarts. Have a good rest of your day, Captain.”

Josephine turned and left the room. Evelyn stared after her for a moment, before she did back down into the basket of Orlesian fruit tarts. Evelyn was a danger to Josephine; how could she not see it? Or rather, why did she refuse to? It bothered her just as much as it bothered her how perfect the tarts were. Though she wanted to fight the urge of giving in to temptation, Evelyn picked one adorned with plump red raspberries and took a bite.

Strangely enough, Evelyn did have a good rest of her day after that.

*****

Another morning had arrived when Evelyn received a notice from the Comte’s estate.

It came with not Josephine, but a woman with rounded cheeks and big brown eyes and a mundane though perfectly pressed dress. “Are you the Captain from Ostwick?” Asked the woman, squinting as if trying to recall from her memory who she was, though Evelyn was not at all familiar with her. “You must be. You're the only one with eyes like that in these parts.” 

Evelyn scoffed. “These parts? How pretentious of you.”

“I don’t conduct much business in smelly fish markets and salted shores,” said the woman. “It is below me.” She dug into the small pocket of her dress and pulled out a rolled piece of parchment, one hand going to rest on her hip. “This is a letter for you, from Lady Josephine of House Montilyet.”

At that, Evelyn snatched the parchment from the woman’s hand and looked it over just to make sure it truly had come from Josephine. Her thumb rubbed against the red wax seal, stamped with a four-pointed boat’s wheel. It was the seal of House Montilyet, if she could remember from Cassandra’s book of heraldry. 

“Huh. Is your Lady too good to come around _these parts_ and hand deliver her letters herself?” 

“My Lady is swept up in her own engagements at the moment, but she wished to get this letter to you as quickly as possible. That explains why _I_ am here and not her. Otherwise, _she_ would have come to pass it along to your hand.”

Evelyn’s mind ran off without her, wondering what sort of engagements Josephine had tangled herself into. She thought about it as she pulled out her knife and slipped the blade carefully underneath the seal. The letter was...pretty. The parchment smelt of pressed flowers and perfume, the handwriting perfectly curated and smooth; exquisite in every way, just like the sender. She couldn't help but to inhale a little deeper.

It was short and straight to business, Josephine’s voice in her mind pleasantly smooth despite the displeasurable contents of the letter. The Antivan had let Evelyn know that her betrothed would be arriving sometime that night. 

She almost forgot about him, and, truthfully, the dagger. It was a strange reminder that Josephine’s kindness was most likely simple propriety, her words spoken only to save face. Evelyn’s mood had soured for the first time since she'd eaten those fruit tarts yesterday. 

Evelyn invited the woman into her quarters, out of the heat of the sun while she waited for Evelyn’s reply. “You can have a seat at the table,” she gestured. “There’s some wine, if you want.”

“Oh, I couldn’t,” the woman shook her head, pulling a chair out and falling in as if she’d never had a moment’s rest before in her life. “I’m not allowed to drink on the job. Jo- Lady Josephine reminds me often that it is unbecoming of a handmaiden to partake in indulgences while the sun is still out.”

“Well,” Evelyn shrugged, settling behind her desk, “she’s not wrong. Handmaids are the reflection of their Ladies, are they not? And if you find yourself with a drink so early in the day, that just goes to show there are more problems in your life than the one.”

“You seem to know a great deal. Have you many problems, Captain?”

Evelyn dipped the tip of her quill into the inkpot. She stared down at her fresh sheet of parchment before her. “Maybe. A drinking problem is not one, though, if you’re concerned.”

“You have quite a collection on your cart there. Are you sure you do not have a problem with drinking?”

“It’s not for me. It’s for my guests.” 

“The hospital type, are you?” The handmaid hummed, leaning her head on a closed fist. “Maybe I should have that glass. That is, if you are to pour it for me. I just get so tired of having to pour for others, you know? And nobody ever stops to pour for me!”

“I’m your _host_ , not a serving girl. If you want a drink, pour one for yourself. It already seems like you’re used to it.” Evelyn frowned. The ink on her quill had dried. She dipped it again and hovered for a second time over her parchment. Why was she spending so long on a simple reply? “Quit bothering me, handmaid. I’m trying to write.”

“ _How pretentious,_ ” she mocked. 

_J,_

_I hope you will remember the words you spoke to me that night, and understand that I do not intend to come anywhere near the estate during these_ troubling times. _I'm sure you heard the news about some criminal terrorizing the streets as well? Let's just say, it’s not wise for me to openly show my face in the city for some time._

 _I’d like to arrange for a meeting with you and your betrothed in a setting that is safe and secure. Some place that is discreet, with not many eyes or ears that are not my own. How does the_ Cercle Rouge _sound? It’s a dive bar not far off from the docks that I am familiar with._

_Signed, E._

Evelyn rolled and tied the parchment with a bit of twine, and sent Josephine’s handmaid away. Not many hours had passed when she'd returned, escorted in by Krem as she had been earlier in the day.

Evelyn’s eyes widened when she looked up from the book she’d found in her desk. Something about a coin and an archer and an altar. “You’re back already?”

“Sadly,” the handmaid huffed. She fetched another rolled parchment from her pocket, still done up and stamped neatly. “Here is my Lady’s reply to your correspondence.”

_Dearest E,_

_I must apologize, for my betrothed is a finicky man. While I would love to meet you at the_ Cercle Rouge, _I’m afraid he would not be too thrilled to make negotiations so close to the harbor. ~~He is afraid of the gulls.~~ I’d like to give you a fair chance and meet in a place where his mood won’t be so sour. _

_I understand you must remain vigilant in these troubling times. As such, I could arrange for a private meeting at the_ pâtisserie _I’ve mentioned to you before. Mademoiselle Fournier, who operates the shop, is a close friend of mine, and she would be more than happy to provide us a safe space for our talks. ~~You could try her~~ _

_We could meet for an early lunch. If you’d like, I could send for a private carriage to escort you there. That way, you could retain your anonymity in the streets._

_What do you think?_

_Signed, J_

“I think this sounds like a set up,” Evelyn mumbled to herself.

“A set up? No, my Lady is not one for such deceit.”

Evelyn narrowed her eyes. “If you’re lying to me, I’m finding and killing you first, you know.”

“Tch,” she sucked her teeth and folded her arms, “and if I am not? Perhaps I should have _you_ killed instead for thinking of me so lacking in honor.”

“As if you have the authority to do so, handmaid,” Evelyn shot back.

She gasped dramatically, a hand on her chest. “Oh, you wound me with your unkind words!”

With a roll of her eyes, Evelyn grabbed a fresh sheet and her quill, and quickly scribbled a response.

_J,_

_Sounds like a plan. I will meet you there. Send the carriage to the_ Cercle Rouge _at quarter to twelve._

_Make sure your betrothed brings the relic._

_Signed, E._

“That was quick,” the handmaid said. “You spent quite a bit of time on the last ones. Remember how to write, did you?”

“Please leave my ship before I have you escorted out.”

“No need for the flair! I am but a humble servant,” the woman curtsied, almost mockingly. “Hopefully, I won't have to come back at all. No offense, but it smells like something _died_ here.”

“Something _will die_ here if you don't get out.”

“Hm. _Stronza_.”

Evelyn did not know what that word meant, but she could only assume it was an insult, for how the handmaid turned her nose up and walked away. _How pretentious._

*****

The carriage had come to the _Cercle Rouge_ at quarter to twelve on the dot. As promised, the carriage was small and inconspicuous, manned by a single stagecoach and hauled by a well-groomed buckskin dray horse. 

Evelyn ducked into the carriage and made sure to draw the curtains shut. Anticipation and anxiety had crept into her limbs once she was alone. Many questions ran through her mind, bringing about all the worry and none of the answers. 

There was the concern of guards waiting to ambush her the second she arrived. There was also the thought that maybe the dagger wasn’t even there. Then there was the betrothed himself, and whether or not he was to be trusted. She did not trust Josephine at all, though the Antivan had been very...forgiving with her, so how could she possibly trust a man she’d never met before?

Much could go wrong. None could as well. She wouldn’t know until she arrived, but the wait only made it that much worse for her. Evelyn leaned back against her seat and shut her eyes, if only to regain some of her nerve. Her ring twisted in her hands as it had the majority of that morning, but it brought very little in terms of relief.

One long (as it felt to her) ride through the streets of Val Royeaux later, and the carriage finally came to a stop in front of the spot. It was almost unrecognizable for what it was, if not for the doors propped open and wafting the warm and divine scents of yeasty bread fresh from the oven and the sickening sweet hints of cookies, cakes, and pies into the streets. 

The front and sides of the bakery were covered in green ivy, crawling up the stone and over the rooftop, nearly cascading over the words etched into the stone above the door. It was quaint and crowded, the door frame barely tall enough for Evelyn herself to duck under, and the inside was mostly filled with glass displays of fresh baked goods and hanging potted plants. 

There was a second door leading to the back, where remnants of a fire’s light emitted, and in front of it, a counter where an elderly woman perched herself at. “ _Bonjour,_ ” she greeted, eyes crinkling with her smile. “How may I help you today?”

Evelyn pulled back her hood just enough to reveal her face. “I’m, uh, here to see Josephine Montilyet,” she told the woman nervously.

“Oh! You are her _amie?_ ” The woman lit up even more. “Come, come, Josie waits for you in the loft. Climb the steps in the back here.”

In the back corner, almost hidden away from all the displays and clutter, there was a small, narrow set of stairs that went up to a creaky old door. It had once been white, then painted over a green that peeled and cracked along the edges. 

Evelyn looked back to the woman, short and welcoming and frail. “What’s up there?” She couldn’t help but to ask.

Almost knowingly, she smiled and pushed Evelyn along. “Go, go, it is safe. Just Josie and _le fiancé._ Promise. It is but an outdoor space. Comfortable. Private. You will not be disturbed there.”

Even though she was still hesitant, Evelyn couldn’t help but to trust the Mademoiselle. She nodded and climbed the steps, entering into the loft where Josephine awaited. To her surprise, the outdoor loft was a spacious place, as thick with foliage as the front was. A wooden lattice hung over the space, overgrown with ivy and leaves that blocked out the severity of the sun. Plants grew over the edges of terracotta pots, traversing across the red clay of the floor. 

There were several tables and chairs set up, all vacant as promised save for one in the center of the loft. It sat underneath the break in the lattice, allowing the sunlight to peer in and splash blue against white and green and pink and orange.

Josephine was with an unfamiliar man across from her, dressed to the nines in the finest leather and wool. For the most part, she seemed unbothered, her expression void of any interest as her eyes settled on the man’s face, his aimless chatter filling the empty space along with the chirping of the birds.

Evelyn, for a moment, simply stared at the sight before her. Or, more like, at Josephine. Her skin basked in the gentle caress of the sun, the warm rays leaving light kisses on her upturned face. Dust motes showered overhead like tiny glittering flakes of diamonds. Her long lashes shielded her eyes that looked more golden in the light, soft and sweet like honey.

Josephine chuckled a bit at something the man had said. She tucked behind her ear a stray bit of hair falling out from her chignon and lifted her tea cup to her lips. She looked almost ethereal, doing something as mundane as sipping. So refined, so delicate, so unreal, so... _pretty._ It was entirely unfair how Josephine could turn the most simplest thing in the world into the most interesting.

Evelyn felt her cheeks warm and quickly averted her eyes. She shifted her weight from one foot to the other. She'd been standing there, creeping, for far too long, she realized. She should’ve said something by now. “ _Ahem,_ ” Evelyn managed, an intruding noise that was loud enough to startle the others in the loft. 

Two heads turned, and surprise on one had easily melted into a pleasant smile. “Captain!” Josephine stood, brandishing an arm. “Welcome! Come, have a seat. Would you like a cup of coffee? The pot is still warm.”

“Sure.” Evelyn stepped into the loft with her hands behind her back. The man across from Josephine had finally stood as well, and she looked at him with weariness. He did not smile as Josephine had done, but seemed to be regarding her the same as she did him. Evelyn pulled the seat in between them, front facing the entrance to the loft. “So, this must be the fiancé,” she finally said.

He wasn’t anything impressive, as far as Evelyn could tell. He stood at just about her height, with only so much more on his bones than she had. He looked pretty. Soft, in the way some noblemen were coddled so much by their mothers that they bled the moment you poked at them. Did he even know how to hold a sword? It was a laughable image in her mind.

“Yes, this is him. Captain Evelyn, may I present to you my betrothed, Lord Adorno Ciel Otranto.”

At his presentation, Adorno smiled and stuck his hand out. "It is a pleasure to meet you, Captain Evelyn. I do not believe I have had the pleasure to see your face around here.”

Hesitantly, Evelyn shook his hand before they all took their seats. "I don't expect you to. I’m not from around here." Josephine had poured her cup, and Evelyn took it politely. She sniffed and tried not to wince. The scent was bitter and overpowering.

“Ah, I see,” he said. “And where is it that you are from? Your accent paints you as being someone…southern? The Free Marches, perhaps?’”

“Kirkwall, so, yes.” Evelyn shifted in her seat. She didn’t like all the questions. She was never one for small talk. "I'm here for the relic. Josephine said you'd have it with you?”

“A woman of few words. Straight to the point. I like that,” Adorno mused. He snapped his fingers in the air a few times before a man in the corner had emerged from the shadows, a small wooden box tucked under his arm. “Josephine informed me of your interest in the relic. I must say, it is quite the beauty.”

The man lifted the lid of the box, and Adorno reached in, pulling out the dagger from Isabela’s drawings. It glimmered in the sunlight, emitting a subtle purple hue, and each of two pointed ends were so sharp and fine, she could barely see it.

Evelyn’s heart sped up in excitement. Finally. It was _finally_ there before her, and damn, was it even prettier in person. She thought, _maybe_ it was worth all the trouble; it must’ve cost a fortune to obtain, and if the story Josephine had told her was true, was extremely powerful and dangerous. She couldn’t wait to get it to Isabela and see the look on _her_ face.

Evelyn set her cup down without taking a sip. "What do you want for it?”

"You want me to put a price on it?” At that, Adorno chuckled in amusement, leaning back in his seat to twist the dagger in his hands. “I apologize, but I cannot simply barter it away like a ram or a bushel of wheat."

“Let’s not speak about price, then.” Of course he wasn’t going to just hand it over. Evelyn had come somewhat prepared, however, with her own propositions. “You’re a businessman, right? Are you looking to establish some new supply lines? Cut some profitable trade deals? What am I saying, of course you are. I can help you with all of that. Whatever you need, whatever you want, I can arrange for you.”

“I didn’t know you were in the business as well, Captain.”

“What do you think I do with my ship? Sail it just to sail? I have many connections around Thedas. I know of many people just like you, wanting to fill their cup with more gold, more land, more power. If you’re not interested in that, I could tell you that the seas and the highways bring more danger every year. I know people who can protect your already existing businesses, who can keep your investments safe.”

Adorno seemed to ponder for a moment, tapping the flat curve of the dagger against his cheek. “Interesting. Tell me more about your connections, Captain.”

Evelyn indulged the man, though she left out names if only to keep her full identity concealed. She did not need to tell Adorno that she was a pirate and all her such connections were hardly legal; she made him believe what he thought of her, that she was but a simple trader of spices and silks and furs from Kirkwall. She would leave out the bits of brewing war against the Felicisima Armada and unraveling slave trade rings, of taking odd under-the-table jobs and chasing treasures of questionable worth, of making sketchy deliveries and meeting with even sketchier liaisons.

He’d find out the truth eventually, but hopefully, it would be _after_ she got the dagger.

Some time later, Adorno sighed and leaned back in his seat. “I’m sorry, but no deal,” he decided, and Evelyn wanted to hold her head and scream. What was the point of all that explaining, then, if he wasn’t going to bite? “My House prides itself on hard work and dedication. If I wish for more of anything, it will have to be that I rely on myself, and not on the delicate promises of some unknown sailing merchant. Truthfully, how can I trust your word, when I do not even know who you are?”

Evelyn rested her arms on the table and leaned forward. To move this further along, she could no longer walk on eggshells. "Are you compensating for something else, Adorno? Is that why you can’t give it up so easily?” Instead, she would have to come right for his throat and hope he was as fragile as he looked. “I was wondering why Josephine looked so miserable sitting alone with you. No satisfaction in the bedroom, I imagine?”

“Captain, _please,_ ” Josephine sharply intervened. “This was to be a polite and civil conversation.”

Evelyn did not look at her. Adorno did not either. He stopped playing with the dagger in his hands to look up at Evelyn. "You insult me,” he said, moving to lean forward as well. “I must let you know, insults do not pass by me so forgivingly, Captain.”

“And what should you do about that?” Evelyn pressed. “How could a man of your stature remedy such a damaged ego? Is there even such a way?”

“You mention satisfaction in the bedroom. While you are correct to assume there is a lack of such, it is only because Lady Josephine and I are waiting for the opportune moment.” Evelyn felt her fingers curl over her arms, holding herself as Adorno continued to speak. He smirked, and something in his eyes had lit up. “There are many other ways in which satisfaction is attained. One such method is through the demonstration of a willingness to risk one’s life.”

"Alright,” Evelyn agreed without much thought, “fine. If you aren’t in the mood to negotiate, how about I just duel you for it?"

"A duel, you say?” Adorno pondered in excitement in such a way that was almost sarcastic, almost as if he were not the one to suggest such a thing and was surprised yet intrigued both ways. “Well, I simply cannot pass up on a duel! Very well, I accept your proposition. We shall have ourselves a duel!”

At that, Josephine stood abruptly, the legs of her chair scraping against the wood. “Surely, there is no need for unnecessary violence,” she protested. “Perhaps we could-”

“-My Lady, I was challenged to a duel, and you and I both know when one is challenged, there is no proper response but to accept. To do so otherwise would be a disgraceful loss of face and honor,” Adorno had interrupted. He turned his attention back to Evelyn. “Let us lay the terms and conditions. Since I am the challenged, I will decide these. We shall duel with rapiers. First to three taps above the belt comes to be victorious. I win, I keep the dagger and you leave Val Royeaux with nothing. You win, you get to take the dagger and parade your victory. Simple, yes?"

“If I knew it was as simple as that, I would’ve saved my breath and challenged you earlier.”

“I should not hold you to such a fault. You are not Antivan, and therefore do not understand the weight of importance dueling holds. I was waiting for the proposition, but really, was not expecting it.”

“We’ve wasted too much time talking about nothing already. Let’s just get this over with.” Adorno stood, and at the same time, so did Evelyn. While their first handshake was light and hesitant, this one was firm and tight. Evelyn couldn’t help but to grin, her chin lifted high and her chest puffed cockily. “May the best win,” she said. 

Evelyn moved aside the tables and chairs with the help of Adorno’s servant from the corner, creating an open space without the obstacles for them to duel. While the talking had drained her, she’d found new excitement in being able to do something geared more towards her preference. Negotiating was never her thing. Words were too heavy and she never was able to find the right ones for the given circumstances. 

Now, dueling? There was no need for speaking. There was no need for careful pickings. Communication was told in movement, in fluidity. She spoke more through action than anything else, and she would tell Adorno exactly how much of a ninny he was, and tell Josephine that her fiancé was a puss.

Speaking of Josephine, she stood at the fringe, teeth clamping over a fingernail. When Evelyn had passed by, she placed a gentle hand on the crook of Evelyn’s elbow to stop her. “Are you sure you wish to settle this with a duel, Captain?” Josephine had mumbled. Her brows were furrowed in concern, worry evident in her eyes. “I do not wish for any harm to come to you.”

Evelyn’s heart had missed a beat, stuttering for just the tiniest moment in her chest. She side-stepped away from Josephine’s touch. “I'm sure,” Evelyn replied, loud enough for Adorno to hear. She did not look at Josephine as she spoke, blaming the stutter on excitement. “You should be worried for _him,_ not for me. But don’t worry, I’ll go easy on him. Wouldn't want to further hurt his pride.”

Adorno laughed from across the room. He practiced a few thrusts and jabs, cutting into the air with his own rapier. “You should refrain from underestimating me, Captain. It should truly be _me_ speaking that warning to _you._ ”

The man had presented Evelyn her own weapon. She tossed the rapier one hand to the other, testing its weight. Once satisfied, she settled the grip in her right hand and took her stance within their makeshift ring.

“Are you ready?” Adorno asked.

“Are you?”

“As ready as can be.”

Evelyn rolled her shoulders. “Let’s start, then.”

Adorno was quick, faster on his feet than Evelyn had anticipated. She was easily put on the defense, backing up and deflecting his speedy advances, one following another with barely a moment for her to breathe. Not long after the duel had begun did Adorno score the first point.

It was a quick touch; she’d parried too wide and left herself open for attack. She was surprised and almost impressed. _Almost._

“Ha!” Adorno exclaimed once he’d stepped back. “First point is given to me!”

“Lucky you.”

“Should I lend you some of my luck? It seems you might need some of it.”

At that, Evelyn grunted and quickly threw herself back into the flurry of metal-on-metal and evenly timed steps. She was furious for having made such a small mistake. There could be no more of those. Her heart kicked into overdrive, lighting her skin on fire and pumping adrenaline to every limb of her body. She moved on autopilot now, with not a moment to even think of her next move. 

When she was a child, Evelyn remembered being ridiculously enthralled by swordplay and knighthood. She daydreamed of one day being able to pick up a blade and begin her practice, but her father kept her from engaging in such brutish displays. Many hours were instead spent watching from the windows of the study, a longing glance thrown where Maxwell was, sharing blows with their father or the instructor he’d hired.

Dancing, lute-playing, mathematics, reading, and writing were her engagements instead, and it wasn’t until she came upon the seas that she first held a sword. She had lessons then; her Captain was a skilled swordsman, thorough in his instruction, passionate in his craft. He reminded her of her own father, sometimes.

Strict. Relentless. Unforgiving.

 _“Faster!”_ He’d yell at her. _“Ya movin’ too slow, Slug! D’ya think the bastard will wait for ya to catch up? No! He’ll gut ya open the second ya give ‘im an opportunity to! Move like yer life depends on it, cause it damn well might!”_

Step. Thrust. Tap. 

A point for her.

Evelyn stepped back and took in a slow, controlled breath. She could feel her heart beating in her ears, her body shedding the tensity in her shoulders. Adorno’s expression was still bold, still full of confidence. “Lucky _you,_ ” he grinned.

Lucky indeed. 

Her goal wasn’t even to attack but to instead assess his skill. Adorno seemed a bit seasoned in swordplay, which was expected; he was a male born into a noble family and knowing how to wield a sword was practically a requirement. While he could definitely hold his own, however, Evelyn could tell he hadn’t spent much time with a sword in his hand. 

Adorno moved without hesitation and without pause. He moved simply, directly, and struck straight, but just because he’d learned the steps, didn’t mean he was good at executing them. It was clear Adorno did not favor a sword, but what he lacked in proper execution, he made up for in speed and surprising upper body strength.

“Two more. Let’s finish this quickly,” Evelyn urged, not waiting for his response before advancing. She’d have to think of effective ways to move around his strengths and go for his weaknesses, but she needed to know more.

_“Always be a step ahead, Slug! Don’t just look at ‘em, be ‘em, an’ ya’ll know just how to fight like ‘em!”_

Evelyn would assume Adorno was taught in a control environment where no real danger would come for him. Assuming he favored another weapon over the sword, the instructors were probably there for show-and-tell, teaching him the basic dance moves but not how to follow through with the whole routine. He played for fun, not for survival. For this reason, she could assume they didn’t teach him the art of _deception_ in his lessons.

Fighting fair was a sure way of getting killed during a sword fight. Adorno had probably never gotten into a real skirmish, and therefore was more open to gullibility. Evelyn feinted an attack on Adorno’s left, and instinctually, he moved inward to deflect. Evelyn circled her blade underneath his and struck him from the outside instead. 

His brows raised as he stepped back from her second tap. “That was well done, Captain. I’m curious to know who your fencing instructor was, since I can only imagine you’ve taken lessons before.”

“I didn’t have one. I wasn’t allowed to take lessons when I was a child.”

“Ah,” he drawled, a mischievous glint in his eyes, “were you too preoccupied with your domestic studies? It is quite alright, my sisters did not take up the blade either. They knew their place was not in that of a man’s.”

Adorno was taunting her. While deception was powerful, _provocation_ was as well. He had come at her too aggressively in the beginning, and the loss of stamina had diminished his skill over time. He was getting sloppy, and he tried to make up for it by attacking her with words. Evelyn could not let him get to her. She would have to play this to her advantage, rather than the other way around.

Evelyn advanced on him for the third time, sweet victory just one more tap away. She went back on the defense as she had when they began. Expectantly, they circled one another, waiting for the other to attack first, but Evelyn would not give in. She had reeled her line, and would wait for him to bite.

Impatient, Adorno eventually took the bait, though cautiously and almost unwillingly. He thrusted and Evelyn easily parried his half-assed attempt. Adorno twisted his lips. “Why do you hesitate, Captain? Where has your spark gone?”

“I’m not the one hesitating, it’s you,” Evelyn pointed with her rapier. “You’re afraid, aren’t you? Because I’m just one point away from beating you?”

“Afraid? Of you?” Adorno tilted his head back and let a laugh escape his chest. “That is quite the joke, Captain! Now, if you have caught up to your breath, let us finish this duel once and for all.”

The corner of Evelyn’s lips went up. She held her position and remained on the defense, while Adorno began to attack with more force. He struck once, twice, three times, each one deflected by a tilt of her blade. He was growing ever more frustrated; first, with the lack of effort on Evelyn’s part, and second, with the lack of result on his part. Eventually, he had become clumsy, his attacks less about hitting her and more about getting a response from her.

His ego had gotten the better of him. Adorno had overstepped in his lunge and knocked himself off balance. Evelyn side-stepped out of the way, and Adorno stumbled, his non-sword hand out to hold himself from falling on the ground. While he moved to get back up, Evelyn stepped forward and thrusted. Adorno turned, and just as he had done so, Evelyn pressed the tip of her rapier to Adorno’s sternum, right in the middle where his heart rested underneath flesh and bone.

They came to a standstill. Neither person spoke, nor did they seem to even breath. Josephine, toying with the hem of her sleeves, looked from every person in the room. “Does that one count?” 

“Lord Otranto established no such penalties against attacking during or after a fall,” announced the server. “No rules have been broken. As a result, the point is awarded to Captain Evelyn.”

There was a moment where Adorno’s eyes darkened, his expression cold and solid as he realized he’d been played, but a smile had broken through his icy exterior, not at all pleasant for what it should’ve been. "I believe that is three for you,” he solemnly admitted. “You perform well, Captain. I am thoroughly impressed. Women are not so capable of standing against a man in a duel, you see."

Evelyn pressed the point forward just the slightest bit. "This _woman_ just knocked you right on your ass.”

He held his hands up in defense, but he was too relaxed, like he didn't care, like he couldn't take her seriously. "Indeed, you did,” Adorno replied with ease. “Well, I am a man of honor, and therefore should honor the terms of our agreement.” He tilted his chin and his server stepped from the sidelines, holding out the wooden box. “The dagger is yours, Captain. Now, do you mind stepping aside?"

Evelyn relaxed and stepped away. She turned to the server and eagerly exchanged her rapier for the box. It felt much lighter in her hands than she thought it would be, and though she had been overcome with thrill before, she was more relieved to finally, _finally_ have the relic in her possession. 

She held it close to her chest and rubbed her thumb across the small sigils carved into the tops and the sides of the box. Very subtly, the sigils came to life, glowing underneath the pads of her fingertips. “Are you satisfied with yourself?” Came Josephine’s voice in her ear. Evelyn looked up. Her arms were crossed over her chest, expression stern. 

Evelyn drew in a breath and let it settle. Then, very slowly, she exhaled and released all the worry and the doubt that had built up from the past five days. “Very much so. I think this is the most relaxed I've felt in days,” she answered. “Thank you, by the way. I couldn’t have gotten this without your help.”

At that, the tension in Josephine’s shoulders fell. "Ah, well, surely, you would’ve found _some_ way,” she blinked. “You’ve proven to be quite resourceful.”

“And if you’re complimenting me, that should be my cue to leave.” Evelyn smiled a little at Josephine, before turning back over to Adorno, solid as a sculpture and just as cold. “My condolences, Adorno. Sorry about your lost pride. Maybe you should hold on to it tighter before you lose it to another woman in a duel.”

He said nothing in response, but it was enough satisfaction for her. Evelyn made for a quick exit, but she wasn’t able to get very far before Josephine had called out to her once more. "Wait, Captain," she said. Evelyn halted and didn't turn around, not right away, in case she’d heard wrong. "Please, stay for a moment. I would hate for you to leave without letting us receive you properly.”

A part of her was telling her to leave, that her job there was finished and she should have been halfway to Kirkwall already, but another was pulling at her to turn around, to look back, to stay, if only for a moment longer. And so, listening to this smaller, though prevalent part of her, she did. 

Adorno was close by, eyeing Josephine with curiosity. "My Lady, the Captain must be too busy to stay.”

"Nonsense.” Josephine didn’t look at Adorno. Instead, she kept her kind eyes trained on Evelyn. “You must be famished after such a strenuous activity. I could have Mademoiselle Fournier prepare a light morsel to restore your lost energy, perhaps some hors d’oeuvres or some of her famous pastries?”

"If you are feeling peckish, my Lady, it would be no trouble for us to go down to the Summer Bazaar and catch a late lunch,” Adorno desperately cut in again. “Mademoiselle Fournier would take some time to prepare a fresh meal, and I believe our guest has none to spare. Tell her, Captain. Tell her you have no time for such excess."

Evelyn had beat him once; she was not going to give that man the satisfaction of winning now. She'd stay at Josephine's request, simply out of spite. "Since you offered, I'd love to stay,” she decided. “I hear the fruit tarts Mademoiselle Fournier makes are the best in the city.”

The corner of Adorno’s mouth twitched, in annoyance, perhaps, while Evelyn’s twitched in triumph. Josephine, seemingly oblivious but exceptionally smiley, asked Adorno’s server to fetch some goods for them to share, and then they sat back down, this time with Josephine in the middle and Evelyn and Adorno from across one another. 

“Well then,” Adorno tightly smiled, “while we wait for our morsels, I believe we should take this time to get to know one another. There are many stories that have come out from Kirkwall in recent years. It must be a fascinating place to live.”

Evelyn tapped her ring against the surface of the table, anxious or impatient, or maybe even both. She couldn’t help but to continue staring glances at the box by her feet, as if it would suddenly disappear were she to look away. “There's lots to do there. The people are always on the move and there’s always something going on.”

“Are you originally from Kirkwall?”

“No. I lived in Ostwick for the first part of my life. Why do you ask?”

“That ring,” Adorno gestured to her finger, “it’s a family heirloom, I assume? It has quite the jewel.”

Evelyn stopped tapping. She flexed her fingers and looked down at her ring. “Yeah, and what about it?”

“Emerald mines are very rare to find across Thedas, and only the most established families have access to such resources. You are of noble lineage, aren’t you, Captain?” Evelyn immediately drew her hands back from the table. She rested them in her lap instead, and though she said nothing, Adorno still looked smug. “Let me guess: Grain Lords of Ostwick have no noble history, so you must come from one of the five Great Houses. House Morgan? No, they are regarded as nothing but pirates and smugglers, and you are above dishonesty, yes?”

Her fingers curled in her lap. Adorno leaned over the table. “House Cadigan?” He continued. “Hm, no, your loyalties do not seem to align with that of Orlais... Ah!” He snapped. “Of course! There is but one family who oversees much of the business of the mines in Ostwick. You-” he slammed his fist on the table, “-are a Trevelyan!” Evelyn didn’t respond, and let her silence answer for her. “How fascinating! I haven’t the pleasure to meet a Trevelyan!” Adorno turned to Josephine then and narrowed his eyes, almost accusingly. “Did you know all along that Captain Evelyn was nobleborn? And a Trevelyan, nonetheless?” 

“Yes,” came Josephine’s cautious reply. “The Trevelyans are a very famous household name. It is often one may come across a member of the House.”

“Such an understatement to say they are _very famous_ , my Lady. House Trevelyan possesses much in political power. Their reach is expansive across Thedas.”

“ _Okay,_ ” Evelyn exhaled and propped an elbow on the table, rubbing at the building tension in between her eyes, “now that we’ve established my family lineage, can we _please_ move on to something else?”

“No, wait, I am curious about one more thing,” Adorno lifted a finger. “Being from a noble house, especially one with the reputation of House Trevelyan, there must've been an abundance of things to do. Parties to attend, calls to answer, relations to establish. And if I recall, House Trevelyan is rather devout, with numerous connections to the Chantry and the Templar Order. A career in either one path is expected. So, Captain, tell me how it was that you began the trade.”

Evelyn looked up and studied his expression. She knew he wasn’t just curious; he had to want something from her, to rouse some type of emotion. It was what he had been doing almost the moment they met. Maybe she should have declined Josephine’s offer, because she found herself utterly _done_ with the man. "I simply went down to the docks in Ostwick and stepped on the first ship I saw," was her flat response.

"Your parents must have been furious!"

"My parents hadn't much to say about the decision."

“You must miss the accommodations. I cannot imagine a life without having someone there to answer to my every desire and need.” For show, he raised his empty cup, and his server went to fill it back up. “Or the ballroom dancing, the horseback riding, the silk, the gold, the jewels. Indeed, a life of luxury is a life well lived.”

"Those are the things of the past. It was my life once, yes, but that is not the life I live now, and I'd rather leave it at that.”

Adorno’s smile spread wider. "But you wouldn't wish to go back to before?"

The before and then the after. Life before the incident versus life after the incident. Two very different lives. Evelyn had to stop and ponder on that thought. 

She'd wished to go back before, when the pain of the memory was still fresh wounds on her body and she wanted so desperately for it to all have just been a dream, because life after was just a terrible never-ending nightmare. It was a life she did not want to live. It was riddled with hurt, with suffering, with fear; it was full of danger, of evil, of uncertainty. It was uncharted waters full of bloodthirsty sharks, and she was bloodied fresh meat.

Time had healed her wounds eventually, and though the past had left its scars, she’d found some people in the life after that would keep to her side and keep her anchored when all she wanted to do was float away. Buoys, lingering on the surface; she moored herself to every safety device she could, all while the sharks circled. And, as time had passed and lessons had been learned, she realized that life before had been just the same as life after. 

The question was now, which life did she value more? The value of her lineage, of her brother and her mother, her father that had only been there to beat her to submission? Or the value of her freedom, of Kirkwall, of her new found family and the Bannered Mare, the open seas and all the hungry sharks that swam?

Evelyn must’ve been thinking for too long, as Josephine loudly cleared her throat to fill the silence that had fallen. "My Lord, I believe I have yet to ask about your ventures in Cumberland. Were they much of a success?"

"It was not too big of an issue. Montefello just needed my word on a few suggestions he was making...”

Evelyn was glad for the diversion, though their conversation went far over her head, voices fading away into nothingness. She leaned back in her chair and simply watched them interact: Adorno speaking, Josephine nodding along; every once in a while they’d pause to sip their coffee or tear a piece of bread off and eat it. There would be a laugh, and Evelyn would wonder what it was that had been said, whilst laughing along as well.

She didn’t feel present, though her presence was there, and she did not want to be there for any moment longer. She felt uncomfortable and stuffy, her hand aching from holding the tea cup in her hand. Evelyn had taken a sip earlier, and the taste of it had only made her head hurt. 

"Speaking of the wedding," Adorno turned back to Evelyn, aware of her presence yet again, "you will be in attendance, yes?” His voice had intensified in volume suddenly, like she’d swam from underneath the surface of water and could now hear clearly. “A friend of Josephine is a friend of mine. Where should it be that the invitation is sent? Do you have an estate in Kirkwall?”

Evelyn felt a twinge of annoyance. For a moment, she’d forgotten that Josephine was supposed to be marrying this fool. "I don't believe I have the time to attend a wedding. My schedule remains busy throughout the year and, speaking of,” she paused, glancing at the positioning of the sun in the sky. It was well into the afternoon now, and sure enough, she had much better things to do than sit and sip coffee with _this_ asshole. “I need to make sure the ship is restocked and ready to depart by the earliest convenience. I should get going.”

“Oh, so soon?” Josephine frowned, placing her cup back on its saucer. “Allow me to see you out, at least.”

“It’s no problem, I can see myself out,” Evelyn quickly replied, just as Josephine had stood from her seat. "Sit. I don’t want to take up any more of your time.”

“It would be no issue, Captain. I can spare a few more minutes for you.”

“Your cakes will go stale. You should finish them while you can and enjoy the rest of your evening with your-” Evelyn looked at Adorno, still silently watching in his seat, “-betrothed.”

“Well, alright,” Josephine exhaled, finally sitting back down. She smiled, and with a small tilt of her head, she said, "If you are ever in Antiva City, I'd love to receive you at my family estate. Perhaps we could get to know each other better without the pressure of time working against you.”

Evelyn opened her mouth but chose to close it instead of speak. She was, as she always was when it came to Josephine, downright confused and a little astonished, and maybe topped with a sprinkle of annoyance. The stubborn Antivan, seeking her out for gifts of Orlesian fruit tarts and perfectly curated letters and sweet offerings: what did she want from her? They'd made no promise of friendship. It was very clear what Evelyn wanted from her: the relic, and that was all. She wanted to come to Val Royeaux with an empty hand and leave with a dagger. Nothing more, nothing less. She'd forget Josephine the second she left, as Josephine would forget her. 

There would be no other benefit to their relationship, no step further than just passing acquaintances, like ships passing in the night. Still, even as she told herself this, it was a feeling that settled heavily on Evelyn’s shoulders. It was a feeling she could not ponder in full; she held onto it, but only for a selfish moment.

Evelyn said nothing in response, save for a simple, "goodbye, Josephine,” that tasted bitter on her tongue. 

Ugh. 

She always hated coffee. It left a foul taste in her mouth. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Did not go over and edit because sheesh this was a long one (I'll do so l8er). I have been surviving off of very little sleep for the past several days and currently have no functioning ability to do so without feeling like my head is about to explode. 
> 
> Anyways, as always, thanks for reading and sticking by :)


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